"Snakes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

Chapter 12

PC KEN AYLOTT stared around the small room that for the past two years had been his office. It bore little resemblance to the neatly arranged room that had contained only a week ago two filing cabinets, a desk with some wire trays on it, telephone, a notice-board with warnings about such relatively harmless creatures as Colorado beetles pinned on it. Dull and boring but at least it had been his. Whatever his resentment about this out-of-the-way posting, he had had the small consolation of knowing that this was his pad and he was the boss. Now, within the space of a few days, all that had been taken from him.

The office was a shambles; piles of untidily heaped papers that would in all probability never be sorted and filed, a mountain of rubber boots in the corner, discarded clothing. If he had been in charge of operations the place would never have been allowed to get into this state. Damn it, he had been relegated to the status of office boy. Stop here and answer the phone, Aylott, radio us if anything important crops up. Your job is to hold the fort. The super made it sound important, like telling a child he was responsible for picking up his scattered toys; do your best and we'll check it over when we get back. You're not getting the chance to skive on outside operations. Not that Aylott particularly wanted to be out there with every chance of a rattler jumping at you out of the undergrowth.

Shirley, his wife, was asleep in the police house adjoining the official office block. She didn't seem to be able to grasp that Stainforth was a dead-end job, said quite calmly that she would be happy to stay here for the rest of her life, buy one of those semis in the village after Ken retired in another fifteen years. Fifteen years, Jesus wept! Ken Aylott could weep if he stopped to think about it too long.

Of course, it was the Raglan case that was the sole reason for his posting to Stainforth, A balls-up, the classical clanger that a copper on a Manchester beat should not have dropped. He'd picked up Raglan, the man who had committed a dozen horrific sex murders and questioned him. He should have held the bastard, but at the time the man's story seemed genuine enough. The policeman had fallen for a false name and address and a volume of lies thrown in, a few scribblings in his notebook that he had not thought worth the paperwork so he'd let it go at that, and Raglan too. Three months and six corpses later the CID had nailed Raglan and everything came out. You could have saved us millions of pounds and six lives as well, copper, if you had done your job properly on the night of 10 January. Every rookie makes a mistake, some bigger than others. This will go against you.

'It wasn't your fault," Shirley had said. She had stuck by him as she invariably did in everything. 'They can't blame you, you weren't to know.'

Kick PC Aylott's arse. Hard. If it hadn't been for an acute shortage of manpower due to the police commitment on manning picket lines Ken might well have had his arse kicked even harder, right out of the Force. He spent weeks away from home in the daily turmoil of shoving, yelling crowds, had a week in hospital when he was unfortunate enough to have a half-brick land on his head. And then, within a fortnight of the settlement of the long dispute, he received the Stainforth posting.

They even tried to make a meal out of that, "This is your big chance, copper, your opportunity to prove yourself.' There was the odd case of sheep-worrying by dogs (there weren't even any rustlers around Stainforth), threatening to nick the Rising Sun because one night there were half a dozen in there drinking after eleven. Keeping an eye on one or two suspect vehicles that might not get through their MOTs and could just be used on the roads when their owners were in possession of a failed certificate. Oh, Mother of God, big deal!

It wasn't Ken Aylott's week on nights but he clicked for it just the same. They had taken the two boys from the town off the night shift—they should have covered Stainforth from 8 P.M. to 8 A.M.—because they needed them on 'days' to man the road-blocks. 'It'll help if you'll cover the night shift, Ken. There won't be much happening.' There never bloody well was, that was the trouble. Keep on your toes, copper, this is your big chance.

Ken lit a cigarette, sat looking at this pig-hole of an office, even thought about tidying it up, restoring some semblance of order. He'd get a bollocking from the super for sure if he did that. You seem to think this is jour office, Constable.

He half-considered jacking it all in, typing out his notice and leaving it on the desk for Burlington to see when he arrived in the morning. Stick that where the monkey sticks his nuts, I finish on Saturday week. But he didn't, and not just because Shirley was expecting their first baby and the monthly jobless tally, according to the television last Monday, had risen by another 2,000 in the month of May. That alone wouldn't have stopped him, it was his personal pride that did. You failed, copper, so you threw in the sponge, hadn't the guts to see if you could make it all the way back, claw yourself out of demotion and Stainforth. You took the easy way out, didn't you?

But how, for Christ's sake, tell me how? He knew the answer without waiting for it to echo back off those four walls in taunting whispers. You know how, copper, go out and find those snakes. Nobody else has so far. You'll be a national hero, they'll have to give you your stripes then because if they don't the people of Stainforth will petition for your promotion. Like bloody hell they will! The villagers don't petition for anything except against somebody making too much noise on a Sunday.

It'll still count for a lot. Yeah, maybe you're right but I don't stand much chance, not in the dark. You won't get your opportunity in the daytime, you know that; stop here and mind the phone, Constable. Radio us if there's anything really important.

Ken Aylott was sweating just at the thought of going out there. He could smell his own body odours, a sour stench that highlighted his fears, stopped him from kidding even himself that he was not afraid. A good copper's one who does his duty even though he's scared to hell, only fools and liars kid themselves.

He looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty-seven minutes past twelve. He took a swig of lukewarm coffee, lit another cigarette. It was no good just rushing blindly out there into the night, he needed to work out some plan of campaign; look what happened to that clever bastard Eversham. Don't think about him or you won't go. Or Barbara Brown. You're different, Ken Aylott, you've got a tidy mind, you plan.

All the facts pointed to the snakes being somewhere in the village. Well, if the fuckers weren't on the moors or in the fields, and hadn't gone elsewhere (no sightings reported yet apart from scaremongers and those seeking to waste police time), then they had to be still in the vicinity. Every garden in the village had been searched, the sandpit and the churchyard (the old disused cemetery adjacent to the current graveyard included), so logically there wasn't anywhere else left.

It's just a bloody waste of time, you're fooling yourself. Coward! You won't know for sure if you don't go out there and look. And if they're not around you won't be in any danger, will you? You will have been seen to have done something positive, not just sat here all night on your arse as you're perfectly entitled to do. Well done, Constable, you didn't find the snakes but at least you did your best. A fraction of the way towards getting your stripes.

Ken Aylott swallowed the rest of his coffee at one gulp and stood up. He'd better take a pair of those rubber boots off the heap in the corner, size nines, just to make his feet sweat and stink. A torch, too. He thought about a shotgun out of the armoury in the back and decided against it; too many complications if anything went wrong. The police weren't allowed to arm themselves except on written instructions from the Chief Constable. I was hunting snakes, sir. All the other officers carried guns in the daytime. In the daytime, Constable, but you had no right to be prowling about the village in the dead of night with a gun. It amounts to armed trespass for which you will be disciplined. Bloody hell, better leave the gun and play safe. I'm not out to shoot the snakes or enrage them like Eversham obviously did, I'm only going to try and locate them. I've discovered their lair, Superintendent, they're in the ... Ken could not for the life of him think where they might be. It didn't really matter, suffice it that he had had the guts to go out there in the dark, prove himself to himself.

The occasional streetlight broke up the pitch blackness of a summer night, created its own atmosphere of gloom. Eerie, the night was nowhere near so balmy as it had been a short time ago. Insects dive-bombed a lamp, seemed intent on kamikaze attacks. Aylott looked upwards, was aware of a myriad of stars, searched for the moon and detected a silver sliver, barely discernible. A full moon would have been helpful. With a torch you felt so vulnerable, gave your movements and position away.

Further down the main street he had to use his flashlight. Now why the devil hadn't they continued with the street-lighting down here? The houses were more isolated now, modern dwellings erected after the line of stone-built cottages petered out, but the council had not yet got round to providing full amenities for the occupants.

He shone his beam on the towering rickety church lych-gate; it was a wonder that it had not collapsed years ago, rotting and broken timbers, a half-torn notice of church service times hanging on by a single drawing pin. When the winds and rain came again (if ever they did) it would be whipped away to lie rotting in the bottom of the cemetery hedgerow.

He decided to check the church, no real reason except that it seemed the logical place to start. He walked slowly up the weed-covered track, shone his torch from side to side. A wilderness, even the most recent graves that had not yet had their tombstones erected were becoming hidden behind a screen of seeding wild willow herb. There was room for maybe another twenty graves and then the church would have to blow the whistle on burials here unless they obtained permission to dig up the roadside verge. Full up, book your plot now. He smiled in the darkness at his humourless joke but all the same he wondered where they would go next. Stainforth had filled two graveyards in three centuries. The church authorities would have to find another tract of consecrated ground or else resort to cremation. There were hundreds more people still left to die in the village. The snakes could speed up the death toll considerably.

There was no mistaking the four newly dug graves. He smelled the damp soil that had not yet had time to dry out, sheets of artificial grass vainly trying to hide the morbid excavations. The day after tomorrow was funeral day; four, one after the other. Elsie Harrison, Barbara Brown and her child, Eversham, what was left of him. There'll be more if you don't find the snakes soon, copper. Shut up, don't think about it.

The church doors were locked, as they should have been, but it was second nature to a policeman to try them. The wrought-iron latch rattled like the bones of long-dead skeletons turning restlessly in their coffins, echoed inside the church. Aylott felt uneasy, churches were always disquieting to him, associating them with funerals and with the victims of murderers and road accidents. And snakes.

He would make sure he was confined to his office on the day of the funerals, for once not objecting to being the Force's stooge, the human telephone answering service for operational headquarters. You said I was to stay here and look after things, sir. I don't mind at all.

There would be a big turn-out for the burials, the whole village plus press and TV. The media would make a big thing of it. Get your head down over some paperwork, boy, catch up on all that form-filling, and by the time you've finished it will all be over. Until the snakes strike again.

Perhaps he should have attended church regularly in his youth and then he would not have had this secret disquiet about them. It wasn't just death, that was routine to a policeman whether it was a nice peaceful pensioner's passing or a gory traffic accident. It was what happened afterwards, the unnecessary morbid ritual. Some claimed it was a form of therapy designed to ease the grief of the bereaved. Aylott believed it was a climax to horror, brought those left behind face to face with the grave. This is the end, there's nothing else no matter what they try to tell you . He had never had any time for the Reverend Philip Emsworth, Stainforth's parson. Overweight, pink-faced, a flabby handshake and a condescending voice. A hypocrite if ever there was one, a scrounger of Sunday lunches and afternoon teas, who dodged reality by erecting a pseudo-spiritual barrier, had found his niche in this out-of-the-way village. But comforting words were no defence against killer snakes.

PC Aylott made a slow tour of the cemetery, shone his torch from one moss-covered tombstone to the next. Christ, some bugger even had a serpent engraved on his stone, a depiction of the Garden of Eden. That's all I bloody well need. He shivered, the night air had turned very cold.

Well, the reptiles certainly weren't lying out in this jungle of an unkempt cemetery. The constable reached the furthest boundary, saw a dilapidated wicket gate that leaned over into an adjoining section of rough ground—the original graveyard.

It was no more than a couple of acres at the most, triangular, bounded by a tall straggling hawthorn hedge that had last been pleached in 1963 and had not been touched since. Most of the graves went back to the last century, their indecipherable headstones having either been laid flat or fallen over and left that way because in the days when Stainforth Parochial Church Council was able to afford a full-time verger it made mowing easier. Then came drastic economic cut-backs in the 1970s and both verger and mower were made redundant. Emsworth took it upon himself to let the old graveyard revert to nature; the hedge, untidy as it was, screened the worst of the wilderness and as the majority of those buried in there had no living relatives left few were likely to complain. If you can't clear up a mess, hide it, was one of the clergyman's many mottoes.

Aylott did not fancy going in there. He stood by the remains of the old gate, swinging his torch beam in a wide arc, noted the flattened, tangled growth where the police and army searchers had trodden it down. There really was not much point in going in there for a second look, now was there? Not really, but if you're going to check out the sandpit at the far end you'll have to; unless you're going to go back and all the way round by road. You don't really want to go and shine your torch in those open graves again, do you?—because if you walk by them you'll be compelled to. The first one's for Elsie Harrison, the second for ...

He negotiated the leaning broken gate, snapped another rotten strut with a loud crack. If those snakes are around they will have heard that for sure. But they surely aren't because they would have been found by now if they were. That was the best piece of logic he had come up with all night and it made him feel an awful lot easier in his disturbed mind.

Through this wilderness that used to be a cemetery, out into the sandpit and back along the road to the station; sorry, operational HQ. I went out on my own and looked, sir, but I'm certain the snakes aren't in Stainforth. They've moved on unseen and we'll just have to wait until they turn up somewhere. And somebody else gets killed.

It was not easy walking in there, the trampled-down grass and weeds screening large stones that you only found when you either stubbed your toe against them or trod on them and wrenched your ankle. A hidden indentation in the ground threw PC Aylott headlong. He cursed, picked himself up, had to retrieve his torch which had rolled away. Now this is bloody stupid, you're not proving anything either to yourself or to anybody else. You're pandering to guilt, trying to convince yourself that you're not the bloody coward you thought you were. And all the time you're shit-scared.

The sandpit could not be far now, the hedges were beginning to angle towards the apex of the graveyard triangle and where they met there would be a broken-down stile and a slope beyond which he would have to negotiate very carefully. Then it was but a hundred yards or so back to the road. And safety.

His foot rested on something flat and smooth beneath the grass; one of those old tombstones lying horizontally, no doubt. He rested his full weight on it and felt it tilt like a paving slab that had been placed on uneven ground. Well, it was hardly likely to have been laid with a spirit-level, was it? It .. .

Ken Aylott's brain could not cope with what happened next. A feeling like vertigo, a loss of balance and coordination, a sensation akin to stepping on to a hinged trapdoor, aware of it tilting downwards beneath his feet. His logic screamed at him to jump sideways before it was too late but his body refused to heed the warning.

Falling. A rush of stale cold air came up out of the ground to meet him, and he gave a strangled cry of terror, clinging on to his torch. Instinctively he hunched his body, anticipated the bone-jarring fall, a kaleidoscope of terrors jamming his crazed mind; a childhood fear of the dark was instantly released from that corner of his brain where it had slumbered for three decades, had him screaming in infantile terror.

A cloying stench filled his nostrils, the putrid suffocating smell of an airless place. And then came impact and pain, the agony of breaking bones, gasping for air that was putrid, lying in a crumpled heap on sharp stones and doubting whether he would ever be able to move again. Crying, gasping with sheer terror because he could not manage a second scream.

He lay there, his body crunched up into a tight ball, racked with pain. Subconsciously he knew what had happened; an old crypt, the kind that were popular in the last century when entire families were interred in the same grave—a broken or loose stone that had acted as a trapdoor to catapult him down into its depths. Oh, merciful God, this was a place of the dead, hideous skeletal remains . . .

Somehow he was still clutching his torch but he did not want to look; it was still on, miraculously, but he closed his eyes in case he saw. He tasted blood, not a lot so perhaps he had just bitten his lip or tongue in the fall. But his leg was broken for sure, possibly both of them because he could not move them. He gasped for breath and it hurt like hell. Broken ribs; if he tried to get up he might puncture a lung.

I've got to get out of here! A haze of pain, a red curtain before his eyes. I mustn't faint, if I pass out I could lie here until I die. Somebody will surely come looking for me when the day shift takes over. But they won't know where to look, will they?

He tried to move his head, attempted to look upwards, desperately searching for a glimpse of those glittering stars, or that sliver of moon, anything that meant that there was open sky up above. Please .. .just one star. .. but there were only streaks of shimmering red to be seen in the total blackness where there should have been an open square directly above.

You mustn't panic. Rest a bit, try to think. He felt at his legs, bare bleeding skin where his trousers had been ripped and torn asunder. There's broken bones definitely. Oh God!

Suddenly he got an awful feeling that he was not alone, beginning with a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. Don't be bloody stupid, if there's anybody else in here they've been dead a very long time. A heap of old bones but they can't move or hurt you.

Something definitely moved, dislodged a trickle of small stones close by. He jumped, wanted to shine his torch in the direction of the noise but he did not dare. If there's anything there then I don't want to see it. Rats, that's what it is, rodents are bound to use these old crypts. Repulsive but not dangerous.

His arms seemed to be virtually unscathed. Perhaps if he could secure a grip on something then he could pull himself up, reach the slab above, open it enough to give him air, a gap through which his shouts for help might be heard.

New hope, desperation breeding determination, groping behind him, feeling with Ms fingers. And that was when he touched something; it should have been cold rough stone, hard and inanimate. Instead it was rough and soft . . . breathing and moving,'

He snatched his hand away with an inarticulate cry, could not help himself from swinging his torch round, a dazzling white beam that reflected a pair of tiny glittering eyes, a long thick body that ended over in the shadows some yards away. Eyes watching him from every corner, pinpoints of unwavering evil.

Ken Aylott's reason almost snapped, hovered precariously on the brink between sanity and madness. You've found 'em, copper, the snakes everybody's been searching for, holed up in a derelict crypt in a disused churchyard.

No, they weren't real, they were a fevered nightmare brought on by the pain from his injuries. If he closed his eyes, and then opened them a few seconds later, they would be gone, evaporated. If there's anything there it's only rats and I've got snakes on the brain. They bloody well aren't snakes!

He sensed them moving, heard their bodies dragging across the uneven floor, slithering towards him. No, they don't exist, They don't . . .

Sudden agony in his leg, his whole body jerking up, pain that in no way could have come from his fall; like a heated bradawl had been bored into his flesh, gouged a burning hole right down to the bone.

The policeman managed one long shriek of pain and terror, almost succeeded in standing on his fractured limbs, then fell backwards. The torch bounced from his hold, rolled, and shone its light back on the awful scene, cruelly showed Ken Aylott everything he did not want to see. A 3-D horror show in which he was the principal actor.

They were everywhere, long ones, fat ones, thin ones, dazzling deadly colours shimmering in the harsh artificial light; sliding up to the convulsing human body, striking at the exposed white flesh. Fangs that dug deep and tore mercilessly, drew blood and hungered for more. Darted, flicked, speared him with their poison.

Ken Aylott watched his own flesh swell, bloated veins pulsing with deadly venom, reddening, purpling. The snakes slid over him, obscene attacks, savouring this victim that had dropped obligingly into their lair. He felt their coldness, gave up any thoughts of escape. How long did it take a man to die from a snakebite? It depended upon which species bit you. He didn't have a chance, just wanted the end to be quick.

I found 'em, sir, when everybody else failed. Didn't I? And I won't get promotion, not even a posthumous award. They'll always remember me as the copper who fucked up the Raglan case.

The snakes were backing off him, a sudden withdrawal that puzzled the dying policeman even in his pain-crazed state. The bastards wanted to gloat, to watch him die, listen to his pleadings. They'll get you, make no mistake about that. You've fooled us all for the moment but they'll find you, they'll come with guns and blast hell out of you.

He could barely breathe now, as if his lungs had given out, collapsed; his eyes were swelling, restricting his vision. But he saw enough, enough to topple him down into that abyss of madness, even had him trying to laugh.

He had wondered where the big fucker had got to, the twenty-foot python that should have found it impossible to hide out in any tract of English countryside. Well, it was here now, must have been gorged and sleeping off some feast in the shadows, had missed out on the action. Now it was here, which was why all the others were keeping their distance.

A giant amongst reptiles, a Goliath of evil, driving the others back to skulk in their corners, watching them slink away.

Aylott's eyes were just twin slits now but the fear and the pain were gone. I've been looking for you, feller, there's a warrant out for your arrest. You'd better come quietly without any bloody fuss. Come on, now, no nonsense, I'm a police officer. Damn you, don't you understand? I'm a police officer and I'm placing you under arrest. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you . . .

The python was angry because its victim was dead but all the same it lashed the corpse mercilessly, struck with an incredible speed for its size, vented its fury on the human body. There was no need to entwine itself around the corpse, encircle the broken body and crush those frail bones, but it did so because that was its nature and it was very angry.

Tightening, squeezing, feeling its prey crunch and begin to pulp, blood oozing out across the dry floor. Finally it relinquished its grip, reared up and looked down on the mangled form. Its fury was vented and now hunger took over, its body expanding so that it might consume the morass, swallowing it whole, almost noiseless. Reptilian gluttony.

The other snakes were forgotten, hidden in their various corners, afraid because circumstances had forced them to share their hideout with a king amongst reptiles. A kind of temporary peace pact because they were the hunted in an alien land, reptilian guerrillas compelled to band together for survival. Man was their common foe and thus they were united in a single cause.

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.