Brian crouches down, nervously lifts the edge of the bedspread and peers under the bed. Turning on the flashlight of his phone, he sees that the space is clear. He straightens and breathes a sigh of relief.
~~~~~
Vera slams the door of the shop and stomps to the loaded van. Who does old man Beasley think he is? He may be her boss, but that doesn’t excuse the way he talks to her. “Do this! Do that!” And never a please or thank you. Ooh, if only she had a bit more nerve . . .
~~~~~
The living room next. Where might a snake hide there? Under the sofa. Brian gets on his hands and knees this time and has to lie with the side of his head flat on the parquet floor. With the help once again of the flashlight, he’s grateful to find that there are no snakes here either; another sigh of relief.
~~~~~
As if things weren’t bad enough already, the traffic is terrible. Monday morning in the rain and it seems that everybody has decided to take to their cars. Don’t they realise Vera has deliveries to make? And old man Beasley insists she gets them done before lunch, even though it’s logistically impossible. Bloody Mondays! Bloody rain! Bloody Beasley!
~~~~~
The only place they could possibly be hiding in the kitchen is behind the fridge. Brian has to pull it out to check, which he does with great difficulty. He finds no snakes but does find a lot of fluff that he saw there yesterday, too. He decides again that it isn’t the right time to clean it up—there’s more pressing business to attend to—so he pushes the fridge back against the wall and heads for the bathroom.
~~~~~
Vera elects to take a detour to avoid the traffic. She makes a sharp turn left into a side road and regrets it almost immediately; the turn is too sharp, and there’s a heavy CLUNK from the back of the van. Maybe something’s fallen over. What if whatever it is has broken open? Vera glances over her shoulder, but all she sees, of course, is the solid partition separating the cab from the back of the van. She’ll have to stop and check, and that’ll set her back.
~~~~~
Brian stands facing the shower curtain, the tap dripping behind it. Can he hear something else? A slithering? He could pull the curtain open sharply and jump clear, but that would probably frighten the creature and maybe provoke it into attacking. Or he could peek round the curtain—that way he could observe what might be in the bath without disturbing it. But he’s had enough of creeping round today so he goes for the first option, and WHOOSH! . . . Relief again. Nothing there but the dripping tap and a marooned loofah.
~~~~~
Vera’s about to stop to check the back of the van when her phone rings. She grabs it from the passenger seat and looks at the sender. Old man Beasley. Bloody hell! Out of the shop a matter of minutes and here he is getting on her case again. She should answer but opts not to. She pictures his face as he calls and there’s no answer: getting redder and redder, his rheumy eyes popping with rage. And she smiles to herself; small pleasures in a crappy day. The phone stops ringing. She tosses it back on the seat. It bounces and falls to the floor.
~~~~~
Brian flops onto the sofa (not before taking another peek under it, though), exhausted by the stress of searching for snakes. Of course, he knows deep down that it’s irrational to expect snakes in a bungalow in the suburbs of Guildford. But reasoning loses out every time to the fear he’s had since that day in the cemetery.
~~~~~
Vera goes back to concentrating on the road—the detour leads through a quiet suburban estate—and remembers she was going to check the load in the back: three cats and two dogs in carriers, a dozen rabbits in cages, and a crate of— . . . blast it! The phone again! Old man Beasley probably, but what if it isn’t? Vera leans over to retrieve the phone from the floor . . .
~~~~~
Tending his grandmother’s grave that day, Brian shifted some dead leaves and there it was: an adder (he found out later after a bit of research at the library), staring up at him, threatened and now threatening. He dropped everything and fled. From that moment on he’s had a morbid fear of the evil creatures. His fear extends to imagining snakes where they’re very unlikely to be. But he relaxes now on his sofa, secure in the knowledge that for today at least, there are no snakes anywhere in his house.
~~~~~
. . . and in the second that she takes her eyes off the road, a car comes out from a T-junction ahead. Right in front of her van. She sees it—too late—and slams on the brakes. The van swerves, skids, spins, and crashes backwards through the bay window of a small bungalow next to the road. The back doors of the van fly open and out into the living room spews the part of the cargo which will not be entirely welcomed by the owner of that particular property.
A large assortment of exotic snakes of various sizes. And all really rather annoyed.
Leave a Reply