gns.snakes-第25部分

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t　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　he　had　made　the　snakes　pay　for　their　killings。　He　would　never　have　believed　during　those　long　years　of　studying　for　his　degree　that　he　would　ever　e　to　hate　reptiles　the　way　he　did　now。
　　
　　Twenty　minutes　later　he　was　in　the　old　Mini；　both　windows　wound　down　in　the　hope　of　a　cool　breeze；　driving　out　of　Stainforth；　down　past　the　church；　past　the　track　leading　to　the　old　disused　quarry　where　he　used　to　play　on　his　visits　here　as　a　boy。　He　wondered　if　it　was　still　there。　Probably　partly　filled　in　by　its　own　avalanches　and　overgrown　with　vegetation。　He　would　not　have　any　regrets　about　that；　remembered　the　time　when　he　had　gone　there　after　butterflies　for　his　collection；　had　scaled　one　of　the　steep　sand　walls　in　an　attempt　to　catch　a　Red　Admiral　and　had　fallen　fifteen　feet。　Fortunately　the　soft　sand　in　the　bottom　had　broken　his　fall　otherwise　he　might　have　broken　a　leg；　or　worse。
　　
　　It　used　to　be　a　damned　dangerous　place。
　　
　　His　thoughts　returned　to　Keith　Doyle。　Somehow　he　did　not　believe　that　the　gardener　had　left　Stainforth　and　that　made　it　all　the　more　worrying。　Because　PC　Aylott　had　vanished　into　thin　air　also。
　　
　　John　Price　filtered　on　to　the　motorway；　moved　into　the　middle　lane　and　jammed　his　foot　down　on　the　accelerator　as　far　as　it　would　go。　Suddenly　he　was　aware　that　he　did　not　have　that　'unemployed　feeling'　any　more。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　15
　　
　　'WE'RE　BALING　that　sandpit　field　today　no　matter　what　the　army；　the　police　or　any　other　bugger　says；'　Jack　Jervis　informed　his　son　when　he　came　in　to　breakfast　after　doing　the　early　morning　round　of　the　stock　field。　'You　can't　waste　bloody　weather　like　this　and　I　won't　be　happy　till　all　that　hay　is　under　cover。'
　　
　　'Blimey；　Dad；'　said　Sam　Jervis；　splashing　milk　on　to　his　cereals；　knowing　that　his　earlier　suspicions　were　correct　and　that　the　old　man　was　in　one　of　his　moods。　'It　ain't　goin'　to　rain　for　weeks；　if　it　ever　rains　again。'　Not　just　a　bad　mood；　a　very　bad　mood。
　　
　　'We　can't　chance　it。'　Jervis　senior　chewed　noisily；　took　a　swallow　of　tea　to　help　the　stringy　bacon　down。　'We　can't　just　sit　around　doin'　now't；　this　bloody　nonsense　could　go　on　for　weeks。'
　　
　　'I　don't　like　the　idea　o'　you　and　Sam　goin'　up　there。'　Dora　Jervis　shuffled　across　the　room；　deposited　a　plate　of　toast　on　the　table。　'Them　snakes　are　dangerous。'
　　
　　Silence；　just　a　smacking　of　greasy　lips　as　the　Jervis　family　meditated　on　the　perils　of　snakes。
　　
　　Jack　and　Dora　had　rented　their　scattered　smallholding　for　the　past　twenty　years；　a　kind　of　'getting…away…from…lorry…driving'　move。　It　had　been　a　messy　venture；　made　all　the　more　disorganised　by　the　fact　that　their　rented　land　was　scattered　around　Stainforth；　fifteen　acres　of　meadowland　that　Phil　Burton　was　only　too　pleased　to　find　a　tenant　for；　rough　tussocks　of　unpalatable　grazing；　two　more　tracts　of　eleven　and　nine　acres；　and　finally　the　'sandpit　field'　leased　from　the　council。　All　run　from　their　existing　tumbledown　dwelling　and　the　few　acres　that　they　actually　owned。
　　
　　In　the　beginning　Jack　had　had　to　rely　on　casual　farm　work　to　make　ends　meet。　　Rumour　had　it　that　his　'capital　investment'　had　e　from　equipment　stolen　from　his　various　employers；　nothing　serious　enough　to　warrant　police　investigation；　a　roll　or　two　of　sheep…netting　from　one　place；　a　few　stakes　and　staples　from　another。　Jack's　mechanical　knowledge　from　his　haulage　days　came　in　handy；　enabled　him　to　keep　their　old　1962　Ferguson　tractor　going；　and；　with　some　very　untidy　improvisations；　they　managed　to　scrape　a　meagre　living。　Sam　was　an　accident；　set　them　back　a　bit；　but　they　got　by　in　their　own　slovenly　fashion。　Their　shortings　were　many　but　all　were　agreed　that　the　one　thing　they　did　not　shirk　was　work。
　　
　　Sam　was　not　at　all　keen　on　the　idea　of　lugging　the　bales　off　the　sandpit　field；　but　if　the　old　man　said　that　that　was　what　they　were　going　to　do　today　then　that　was　what　they　would　do。　He　had　learned　many　years　ago　not　to　argue　with　his　father。
　　
　　Dora　watched　the　two　of　them　file　out　of　the　room；　and　sighed　loudly。　Jack　worked　the　boy　too　hard；　never　gave　him　any　time　off。　Sam　was　a　hired　labourer　on　a　pittance　of　a　wage；　not　a　son。　The　boy　was　bright　enough；　would　in　all　probability　have　done　well　　at　　school　　if　Jack　had　not　persistently　kept　him　at　home　to　help　with　the　harvest；　the　lambing；　every　seasonal　job　as　it　came　round。　'Tell；　'em　you've　'ad　the　'eadache；　boy；'　he　would　say　at　every　period　of　absenteeism　from　school。　Sometimes　it　was　〃the　bellyache'　just　to　ring　the　changes。　　Sam　might　have　gone　on　to　sixth…form　college　if　his　school　attendances　had　not　been　so　inconsistent；　but　Jack　Jervis　wouldn't　have　stood　for　that。　'Work　is　what　you　do　with　yer　'ands；　boy；　not　sittin'　at　a　desk　thinkin'　about　it。'
　　
　　She　began　to　clear　the　table；　Sam　would　end　up　an　ignorant　pig；　just　like　his　father。　She　couldn't　change　either　of　them　so　she　might　as　well　go　along　with　them。　They　would　still　be　scratching　for　a　living　in　another　twenty　years'　time。
　　
　　Work　was　a　way　of　life　to　Sam　Jervis。　Seven　days　a　week；　365　days　a　year；　he　did　not　expect　anything　else。　On　a　holding　like　this　one　you　did　every　job　yourselves；　spent　as　little　money　as　possible；　a　cycle　that　you　began　again　as　soon　as　the　old　one　ended。
　　
　　This　bloody　heat　was　a　bit　much；　though。　He　wondered　how　the　old　man　could　stand　not　just　a　shirt　on　but　a　woollen　waistcoat　worn　over　it。　Trousers　and　heavy　boots；　too。　All　Sam　was　wearing　was　a　pair　of　denim　shorts；　hacked　from　his　old　working　jeans　when　the　lower　legs　became　threadbare；　and　a　pair　of　scuffed　pumps。
　　
　　The　routine　was　always　the　same。　Dad　drove　the　tractor　and　trailer；　Sam　rode　on　the　back。　Then　between　them　they　loaded　the　trailer　with　bales；　stacked　high　and　precariously；　and　trundled　back　home　where　they　unloaded　them　into　the　barn。　They　managed　three　loads　before　lunch　and　estimated　that　there　were　probably　another　five　left。　They　would　finish　around　teatime…a　late　tea。
　　
　　The　upright　exhaust　belched　black　fumes　as　they　drove　past　the　church。　Sam　glanced　idly　at　the　track　leading　into　the　quarry。　The　old　sandpit　was　technically　theirs；　its　acreage　included　in　the　rent　they　paid　the　council　each　quarter　for　the　field。　Now　that　was　a　bloody　waste；　a　piece　of　ground　that　you　could　not　plough　up；　would　not　hold　stock。　He　wondered　if　there　was　any　way　of　filling　it　in；　levelling　it　up　to　the　field　that　surrounded　it。
　　
　　The　Ferguson　struggled　up　the　steep　incline；　shuddered　to　a　halt　by　the　first　stack　of　eight　bales。　Jack　Jervis　leapt　down；　shouted　at　Sam　to　hurry。　'We　ain't　got　all　bloody　day；　boy。'
　　
　　Eight　bales　loaded；　drawing　up　to　the　next　pile；　another　eight　layered　on　top　of　those。　Now　it　was　Sam's　job　to　clamber　up　on　to　them；　take　the　bales　from　his　father　as　the　old　man　hoisted　them　up　to　him　on　the　prongs　of　a　pitchfork。　Jesus；　the　old　man　would　have　a　heart　attack　if　he　didn't　slow　up；　working　in　a　near…frenzy　in　this　bloody　heat。　It　had　to　be　ninety　in　the　shade　today。　One　day　the　silly　old　fucker　would　drop　in　his　tracks；　just　like　that。　And　I'll　bloody　well　load　him　up　on　top　of　the　hay　and　take　him　down　home。　And　it　won't　spoil　our　tea；　either。
　　
　　Hay　bales　were　ing　up　on　to　the　trailer　as　though　they　were　on　a　mechanical　conveyor　belt。　Ease　up；　you　daft　bat。
　　
　　Suddenly　Sam　Jervis　stopped；　ignored　the　bale　that　had　just　bounced　against　those　he　was　trying　to　stack；　toppling　them　in　a　heap。　Above　the　drone　of　pollen…hunting　bees　he　detected　the　sound　of　a　human　voice；　a　muffled　cry。　He　listened　hard　and　it　came　again。　'Help！'
　　
　　It　was　difficult　to　discern　just　where　the　shout　had　e　from。　Either　it　was　muffled　or　else　it　was　a　long　way　away；　even　as　far　as　the　village。　It　could；　on　the　other　hand；　be　as　close　as　the　sandpit　a　few　hundred　yards　down　at　the　bottom　of　this　sloping　field。
　　
　　'What　the　bloody　hell's　happening　up　there？　You　bloody　well　fallen　asleep？'　Another　bale　flew　up；　bounced　off　the　fallen　pile　and　rolled　off　the　trailer；　thudded　on　to　the　ground　ten　feet　below。
　　
　　'Listen；'　Sam　snapped　back；　'just　shut　up　and　listen　for　a　second。'
　　
　　'What　the　hell　are　you　on　about；　boy？'
　　
　　'Just　listen　a　minute；　will　you；　Dad。'
　　
　　''Help。''　The　cry　came　again；　weaker　this　time　as　though　the　caller　was　growing　tired。　But　it　definitely　came　from　the　sandpit。
　　
　　'There　you　are；　you　heard　that　didn't　you；　Dad？'　Sam　peered　anxiously　over　the　bales；　saw　his　father　retrieving　the　fallen　one；　spearing　it　with　the　pikle；　lifting　it　up　to　throw　it　back　up　again。　'Don't　tell　me　you　didn't　hear　that。'
　　
　　'I　heard　bloody　nothin'；'　Sam　Jervis　grunted；　his　red　face　perspiring　freely。　'You're　paid　to　work　not　to　sit　about　listening　for　things。'
　　
　　'I　tell　you；　Dad；　somebody's　in　trouble　and　it　sounds　like　they're　in　the　。　。　。'　Sam　broke　off　as　the　flying　bale　hit　him；　caught　him　off　balance　and　sent　him　staggering　back　to　sprawl　amongst　the　pile　of　bales。　'You　silly　old　bastard！　There's　something　happened　to　somebody　。　。　。'
　　
　　Sam　Jervis　screamed　a　shrill　cry　of　pain。　That　daft　old　fucker　had　tossed　the　pitchfork　up　at　him；　caught　him　on　the　leg。　He　bounded　up　with　a　roar　of　rage　that　turned　to　a　shriek　of　terror。　All　around　his　feet　were　little　black　wriggling　things　like　burned　sausages；　slithering　to　and　fro；　and　amidst　them　was　a　much　larger　one；　somewhere　between　a　foot　and　eighteen　inches　long；　a　furious　creature　that　whipped　and　lashed　him；　struck　at　his　legs　with　its　venomous　fangs。
　　
　　'Adders？　He　tried　to　flee　but　a　heap　of　bales　prevented　him。　'There's　fucking　adders　up　here！'
　　
　　At　least　Sam　thought　they　were　adders；　they　looked　like　the　ones　he'd　seen　before　except　that　they　were　much　darker　in　colour。　He　didn't　care　what　species；　just　that　they　were　snakes　and　everybody　in　Stainforth　was　hiding　from　them。
　　
　　Jack　Jervis　moved　with　surprising　agility；　clawed　his　way　up　on　to　the　trailer；　clambered　over　the　mountain　of　bales；　a　stubby　unlit　pipe　clenched　between　his　teeth；　the　pitchfork　in　his　hands。　His　son　was　lying　on　a　bale；　directing　a　series　of　futile　k