gns.snakes-第12部分

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ad；　he　eased　open　the　driver's　door；　began　to　swing　himself　out。　And　that　was　when　he　heard　the　banging　on　the　inside　of　the　garage　door；　the　steel　shutter　vibrating。　Somebody　was　shouting。
　　
　　'Mr　Eversham；　Mr　Eversham；　don　'I　get　out　of　your　car。　There's　a　rattlesnake　on　the　rockery！'
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　froze；　heard　the　words　but　their　meaning　did　not　sink　in。　He　recognised　Keith　Doyle's　voice　but　what　the　blazes　was　the　stupid　bugger　doing　inside　the　garage　with　the　shutter　down？　And　another　thing　。　。　。

　　
　　What　the　fucking　hell　was　wrong　with　the　car？　A　noise　as　though　the　exhaust　had　suddenly　e　loose；　was　banging　and　rattling　on　the　underside。　But　it　couldn't；　the　car　was　stationary。
　　
　　'Peter！'　Cynthia　Eversham　screamed；　panicked；　and　grabbed　her　husband's　arm；　overbalanced　him　back　into　the　seat。
　　
　　'What　the　。　。　。'
　　
　　Even　as　he　fell　he　saw　the　snake；　a　thing　like　a　thick　painted　hosepipe　darting　out　from　beneath　the　Jag；　its　vicious　strike　missing　him　and　pinging　on　the　inside　of　the　open　door。　Cynthia　was　yelling；　shrieking　hysterically；　and　then　the　car　door　obeyed　the　laws　of　gravity；　swung　softly　shut　on　the　slight　incline。　Clicked。
　　
　　'Jesus　God！'
　　
　　'It　was　a　snake；　Peter。　It　tried　to　。　。　。'
　　
　　'For　Christ's　sake；　shut　up；'　he　pushed　her　away；　and　in　the　same　movement　eased　the　handbrake　off；　felt　the　car　begin　to　roll　slowly　backwards。　And　as　it　did　so　the　occupants　heard　something　happening　beneath　them；　that　frantic　rattling　sound　again；　interspersed　with　lashing　noises　as　if　a　horse　whip　was　flaying　mercilessly　on　the　underside　of　the　car。
　　
　　Still　rolling　backwards。　Cynthia　screamed；　clutched　at　her　seat；　saw　that　vile　light…coloured　reptile　with　the　black　diamond　markings　thrashing　frenziedly　on　the　tarmac　in　front　of　them。　It　wriggled；　tried　to　leap；　fell　back；　squirmed　and　convulsed；　turned　its　repulsive　head　towards　them；　as　if　mouthing　insane　reptilian　curses。　But　something　was　wrong　with　it；　even　in　her　state　of　terror　she　saw　its　injury；　the　lower　part　of　its　body　crushed　and　flattened　like　the　hose　that　time　when　Doyle　had　washed　the　car　for　them　and　had　left　it　lying　on　the　drive　and　she　had　backed　over　it。
　　
　　'Oh；　my　God！'　she　was　going　to　be　sick　any　second。　'Peter；　you've　run　over　it！'
　　
　　He　jerked　the　handbrake　back　on；　halted　the　car；　then　started　the　engine；　drove　forward　in　a　wide　sweep　that　took　him　to　the　front　of　the　house　alongside　Doyle's　parked　van。　He　killed　the　engine；　glanced　in　his　mirror。　The　rattler　was　thrashing　fiercely　from　side　to　side；　rattling　and　hissing　its　pain　and　fury　but　it　wasn't　going　anywhere。
　　
　　'Peter；　don't　get　out！'
　　
　　'Stay　where　you　bloody　well　are。'　He　slammed　the　car　door　and　ran　for　the　porch；　fumbling　for　his　key。
　　
　　Breathlessly　he　leapt　up　the　stairs；　on　to　the　landing；　into　the　bedroom。　Fumbling　under　the　bed；　pulling　out　a　dusty　leg…o'…mutton　leather　gun　case；　his　trembling　fingers　scarcely　capable　of　undoing　the　straps。　Metal　clinked　as　he　fitted　barrels　and　stock　together；　slapped　the　wooden　fore…end　into　place　to　hold　them　together；　grabbed　some　orange…cased　12…bore　cartridges　out　of　a　carton　on　top　of　the　wardrobe；　spilling　the　rest　on　to　the　carpet。
　　
　　Back　down　the　stairs；　loading　the　gun　as　he　went；　almost　slipping　on　the　polished　wooden　blocks　of　the　hall　floor。　Outside；　seeing　Cynthia　still　sitting　in　the　car；　hands　pressed　to　her　pallid　face　in　fear　and　anguish；　mouthing　something　at　him。　Shut　up；　you　stupid　bitch。
　　
　　The　diamondback　was　still　very　much　alive。　It　was　throwing　itself　from　side　to　side；　manoeuvring　a　course　towards　the　front　door；　propelling　its　awesome　body　in　spite　of　its　terrible　injuries；　malevolently　rattling　its　hate　for　the　man　who　had　done　this　to　it。　Only　one　thing　was　uppermost　in　its　pain…crazed　mind…to　kill！
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　was　trembling　as　he　lifted　the　shotgun　to　his　shoulder；　a　big…game　hunter　suddenly　faced　with　a　charging　wounded　water　buffalo；　its　life　or　his；　there　would　only　be　one　survivor。　He　had　his　life　in　his　hands。
　　
　　Ten　yards；　maybe　less。　He　tried　to　draw　a　bead　on　the　head　but　it　darted　from　one　side　to　the　other；　dodged　away　from　the　shaking　twin　barrels　as　though　it　knew。　Oh　Christ；　so　different　from　driven　grouse　that　couldn't　fight　back。
　　
　　Five　yards。　He　swung　his　sights　on　to　the　body；　the　lower　damaged　part　that　dragged　behind　the　rest；　took　a　trigger　pressure。　A　deafening　blast；　and　somewhere　in　the　background　he　heard　his　wife　screaming；　saw　the　snake　jerk　and　roll；　seem　to　twist　back　on　itself　as　though　it　was　trying　to　view　the　damage。
　　
　　At　that　range　the　concentrated　shot　charge　was　still　strung　together；　had　cut　through　skin　and　tissue；　almost　severed　the　lower　body。　A　slimy　pulp　streaked　the　tarmac。　And　in　that　split　second　Peter　Eversham　finally　got　his　bead　on　the　head。
　　
　　The　left　barrel；　leaden　death　obliterating　the　rattlesnake's　head；　throwing　it　back　into　the　morass　behind；　its　nerves　twitching。　And　then　it　was　still。
　　
　　It　was　dead。
　　
　　Eversham　lowered　the　smoking　gun；　opened　the　breech　and　the　spent　cartridge　cases　were　ejected；　bounced　on　the　drive。　He　stood　there；　experienced　a　euphoria　that　was　only　just　beginning　to　make　its　heady　impact　on　him。　A　pose　he　was　reluctant　to　relinquish；　the　hunter　looking　down　on　his　trophy；　awaiting　the　arrival　of　his　bearers。
　　
　　The　garage　shutters　slid　upwards　and　Keith　Doyle　emerged；　white…faced。　Eversham　thought　the　gardener　might　spew　up　just　to　plete　the　picture。　Cynthia　still　had　her　face　covered；　look　at　it；　you　two；　look　at　it。　It's　dead　and　I　killed　it。　Me；　Peter　Eversham。　They've　been　hunting　the　bastards　for　two　days　but　they　didn't　do　any　good　until　I　returned。
　　
　　'Well　done；　Mr　Eversham。'　A　cry　of　relief；　the　young　red…haired　man　having　to　hold　on　to　the　car；　swaying　unsteadily　on　his　feet。　'It　trapped　me　in　the　garage。　We　better　get　the　police。'
　　
　　'I　think　this　is　them　now。'　Peter　Eversham　heard　the　bee…boraf　an　approaching　siren；　anticipated　the　white　Escort　turning　into　the　drive。　He　shifted　his　pose　slightly；　cradling　the　gun　beneath　his　arm；　sporting　style。　Take　a　good　look；　you　guys；　I　just　did　what　you've　failed　to　do。　Send　the　press；　let's　get　the　record　straight；　nobody's　stealing　my　thunder。
　　
　　'I　got　him；'　he　told　PC　Aylott　as　the　constable　climbed　out　of　the　car。　'It's　a　rattler；　a　western　diamondback。'　I　know　because　I　once　saw　a　TV　programme　about　them。
　　
　　'He's　dead；　all　right。'　Aylott　approached　the　shot…blasted　mulch　with　some　trepidation。
　　
　　'He　is。'　Peter　Eversham　still　stood　there　holding　his　gun。　Jesus　Christ；　where　were　the　bloody　newshounds？　They　were　quick　enough　off〃　the　mark　when　some　randy　vicar　or　other　ran　off　with　the　verger's　wife；　used　rolls　of　film　and　gave　it　front　page　spread；　but　when　somebody　shoots　a　dangerous　reptile　in　an　English　village　they　don't　want　to　know。
　　
　　There's　two　rattlers。'　The　officer　stepped　back。　'I'd've　thought　being　a　pair　they　would　have　stuck　together。　Search　parties　have　spent　two　days　bing　the　moors　and　the　slopes　without　seeing　so　much　as　a　good　old　British　adder　sunning　itself　in　the　heather。'
　　
　　Then　they　were　looking　in　the　wrong　place。　Eversham　just　checked　himself　from　speaking　his　thoughts　aloud。　The　snakes　are　hanging　about　the　village；　right　under　your　bloody　noses　and　you　haven't　twigged　it　yet。　A　man　with　a　gun　who　knows　what　he's　about　might　have　far　more　success　than　hundreds　of　police　and　soldiers。
　　
　　'I'll　have　to　leave　this　for　the　experts　to　e　and　have　a　look　at。'　Aylott　turned　back　towards　his　vehicle。　'I'll　go　and　let　the　Super　know　at　once。'
　　
　　And　not　a　bloody　word　of　'well　done'　or　'thank　you'；　Eversham　reflected　as　he　stood　there　watching　the　constable　reverse　out　into　the　road。　Cynthia　was　getting　out　of　the　Jaguar；　trying　not　to　look　at　the　remains　of　the　rattler；　Doyle　was　back　in　his　van。
　　
　　Eversham　glanced　down　at　his　gun；　a　Holland　and　Holland　side　lock　Royal；　the　ultimate　in　English　gun…making；　a　beautifully　balanced　and　efficient　weapon。　If　you　knew　how　to　use　it；　it　killed　every　time；　grouse　or　snakes。
　　
　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky。　There　were　a　good　three　hours　of　daylight　left　yet；　the　perfect　evening　for　a　quiet　mooch　round　the　hedgerows　bordering　the　barley　and　oilseed　rape　fields　in　the　hope　of　a　shot　at　an　unwary　rabbit。
　　
　　Or　a　deadly　snake。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　8
　　
　　PETER　EVERSHAM　moved　furtively　along　the　straggling　hawthorn　hedge　just　inside　the　field　of　growing　barley　that　was　showing　the　first　signs　of　ripening。　His　every　movement　was　that　of　the　acplished　stalker；　one　who　wished　to　see　and　yet　not　be　seen。　Neither　by　the　snakes　he　hunted　nor　his　fellowmen。
　　
　　His　gun　gave　him　a　new　sense　of　power；　one　that　he　had　not　fully　appreciated　until　now。　Man　was　a　hunter　by　nature　but　it　did　not　end　there。　He　was　a　born　predator　even　though　civilisation　had　attempted　to　eradicate　it　from　the　species；　all　part　of　a　Marxist　plot　to　bring　about　a　revolution；　they　branded　the　hunting　and　shooting　fraternity　as　upper…class　barbarians；　overlooking　the　fact　that　thousands　of　ordinary　working　men　enjoyed　field　sports。　Use　an　emotive　lever　to　prise　the　capitalist　clique　apart　and　the　masses　will　join　the　ranks。　Eversham's　lips　curled　into　a　contemptuous　smile。　Those　opposed　to　killing　ought　to　be　here　in　Stainforth　right　now　and　they'd　soon　change　their　minds。　He　wondered　how　that　fellow　Cousins；　who　lived　in　the　village　and　was　always　writing　the　predictable　emotive　anti…blood…sports　letters　to　the　papers；　was　feeling　at　this　moment。　Cowering　indoors；　doubtless；　listening　in　to　every　radio　and　TV　bulletin　to　find　out　if　the　hunters　had　accounted　for　any　of　the　snakes　yet。　Tally…ho；　go　get　'em；　you　chaps；　and　we'll　forgive　you　so　long　as　you　don't　go　back　to　killing　foxes　when　it's　ail　over。
　　
　　Cousins　was　a　convener　in　one　of　the　factories　in　the　city；　a　trouble…maker；　had　instigated　a　strike　only　a　few　weeks　back　over　some　petty　formality。　In　his　spare　time　he　campaigned　against　blood　sports　and　was　anti　anything　that　peop