gns.snakes-第12章

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uld　have　fetched　Kell；　the　springer　spaniel；　from　the　kennels　where　he　had　been　boarded　whilst　the　Evershams　were　away。　Kell　had　a　keen　nose；　he　was　able　to　scent　out　a　skulking　shrew；　anything　that　breathed；　he　found。　It　was　too　late　now；　Eversham　must　play　a　lone　hand。
　　
　　He　pondered　on　a　plan　of　action。　Assume　that　the　snakes　were　in　the　barley。　In　all　probability　they　would　not　be　found　round　the　edge　but　would　be　deep　in　the　stalky　growth。　It　was　no　good　blundering　through　it；　they　would　hear　him　ing　and　either　slink　out　of　the　way　or　else　attack；　a　sudden　ambush。　Yet　there　was　a　way　。　。　。　Modern　farming　methods　and　the　use　of　poisonous　chemicals　caused　barren　patches　of　ground　amidst　the　crops；　destroyed　the　vital　minerals　in　the　soil　and　created　mini…deserts　in　the　seemingly　lush　growth　akin　to　clearings　in　a　forest。　Find　one　of　these　and　take　up　a　position　there。　Vision　on　all　sides；　no　chance　of　being　attacked　from　behind　and　。。。　he　trembled　with　excitement；　if　he　imitated　a　rabbit　squeal　from　time　to　time　one　of　those　reptiles　was　sure　to　e　on　the　run。　Easy　enough；　the　same　way　that　you　fooled　a　fox　on　a　summer　evening；　you　sucked　the　back　of　your　hand　noisily　and　it　sounded　like　a　wounded　or　snared　rabbit　squealing。　Old　Kenning；　the　gamekeeper；　had　taught　him　how　to　do　it。　Now　he　would　put　that　knowledge　to　good　use。
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　moved　forward　into　the　growing　barley。　It　swished　loudly　as　it　yielded　a　passage　for　him；　springing　back　into　place；　swaying　and　rustling。　He　was　decidedly　uneasy；　the　shotgun　held　at　hip…level；　safety…catch　pushed　forward。　Christ；　you　couldn't　see　to　shoot　anything　in　here；　you　wouldn't　see　a　snake　until　。　。　。　don't　think　about　it。　They'll　probably　be　scared　to　hell　if　they　hear　you；　take　off　in　the　opposite　direction。　Or　attack。
　　
　　Something　moved　to　his　right；　three　or　four　yards　away；　sent　the　ears　of　corn　swinging。　Oh　God；　he　half…turned；　had　the　gun　to　his　shoulder　in　readiness；　beads　of　sweat　forming　on　his　forehead。　All　in　the　imagination；　your　nerves　are　stretched。　Don't　let　'em；　you　are　the　hunter　out　here；　Peter　Eversham；　you　have　a　weapon　far　more　lethal　than　the　deadliest　snake　in　the　world。
　　
　　He　took　another　step　forward　and　the　corn　rustled　again；　a　sound　as　if　the　wind　was　blowing；　yet　heavier；　a　small　body　crashing　through　the　forest　of　stalks　screened　from　his　view。　He　almost　panicked　and　fired　blindly；　I've　got　a　gun；　you　bastard；　don't　you　e　anywhere　near　me。
　　
　　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。　e　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　e　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　ing　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　disfort　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　e　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。
　　
　　'PANY　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　e　in　the　night　and　eat　it。　'PANY　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！
　　
　　It's　dead；　it　can't　hurt　you。　He　steeled　himself；　called　on　every　bit　of　logic　he　could　muster　in　a　mind　filled　with　the　human　revulsion　for　reptiles；　bent　forward　and　stretched　out　a　hand；　make　sure　you　don't　touch　the　head。
　　
　　It　wasn't　slimy；　sort　of　dry　and　rough　to　the　touch；　a　limp　thing　that　might　have　been　a　perished　length　of　garden　hose。　Coils　of　it；　he　could　not　even　hazard　a　guess　at　its　length　as　he　dragged　it　out　of　the　barley；　wondered　how　long　it　would　take　him　to　reach