Man from the South ee-3 Read online

  'You'll shoot me?'

  'I said I'll shoot you if you get up now.'

  A gentle noise came from where Judson lay, a strange sound as if a child were trying not to cry, and in the middle of it, Judson's voice. 'I've got to move; please let me move. This chewing!'

  'If you get up,' said the old man, 'I'll shoot you in the stomach.'

  For another hour or so the crying continued, then quite suddenly it stopped.

  Just before four o'clock, it began to get very cold and the old man shouted, 'Are you cold out there, Judson? Are you cold?'

  'Yes,' came the answer. 'So cold. But I don't mind because the cow's not chewing any more. She's asleep.'

  The old man said, 'What are you going to do with the thief when you catch him?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Will you kill him?'

  A pause. 'I don't know. I'll just grab him.'

  'I'll watch,' said the old man. 'It should be fun.' He was leaning out of the window with his arms resting on the sill. Then he heard the soft noise under the window, looked out and saw the black Mamba, sliding through the grass towards the cow, going fast and holding its head just a little above the ground as it went.

  When the Mamba was five metres away, the old man shouted, 'Here he comes, Judson; here he comes. Go and get him.'

  Judson lifted his head quickly and looked up. As he did so he saw the Mamba and the Mamba saw him. There was a second, or perhaps two, when the snake stopped, pulled its head back and raised the front part of its body in the air. Then the stroke. Just a flash of black and a slight thump as it hit him in the chest. Judson screamed, a long high scream which did not rise or fall, but remained constant until gradually it faded into nothingness and there was silence. Now he was standing up, tearing open his shirt, feeling for the place in his chest, crying quietly and breathing hard with his mouth wide open. And the old man sat quietly at the open window, leaning forward and never taking his eyes away from the scene below.

  Everything happens very quickly when one is bitten by a snake, by a black Mamba, and almost at once the poison began to work. He fell to the ground, where he lay on his back, rolling around on the grass. He no longer made any noise. It was all very quiet, as if a man of great strength were fighting with someone whom one could not see, and it was as if this invisible person were twisting him and not letting him get up, stretching his arms through the fork of his legs and pushing his knees up under his chin.

  Then he began pulling up the grass with his hands and soon after that he lay on his back kicking gently with his legs. But he didn't last very long. He gave a quick shake, twisted his back, then lay on the ground quite still, lying on his stomach with his right knee underneath his chest and his hands stretched out above his head.

  Still the old man sat by the window, and even after it was all over, he stayed where he was and did not move. There was a movement in the shadow under the little tree and the Mamba came forward slowly towards the cow. It came forward a little, stopped, raised its head, waited, and slid forward again right under the stomach of the cow. It raised itself into the air and began to drink. The old man sat watching the Mamba taking the milk of the cow, and once again he saw the gentle movement of its body as it sucked out the liquid.

  While the snake was still drinking, the old man got up and moved away from the window.

  'You can have his share,' he said quietly. 'We don't mind you having his share,' and as he spoke, he glanced back and saw again the black body of the Mamba curving upwards from the ground, joining the underneath of the cow.

  'Yes,' he said again, 'we don't mind you having his share.'

  The Champion of the World

  All day, when not selling petrol, we had been leaning over the table in the office of my petrol station, preparing the raisins. We had a hundred and ninety-six of them to do altogether, and it was nearly evening before we had finished.

  'Don't they look wonderful!' Claud cried, rubbing his hands together hard. 'What time is it, Gordon?'

  'Just after five.'

  Through the window we could see a car arriving at the petrol pumps, with a woman at the wheel and about eight children in the back, eating ice creams.

  'We ought to be going soon,' Claud said. 'The plan won't work if we don't arrive before sunset.' He was getting nervous now.

  We both went outside, and Claud gave the woman her petrol. When she had gone, he remained standing in the middle of the yard, looking anxiously up at the sun. 'All right,' I said. 'Lock up.'

  He went quickly from pump to pump, locking each one.

  'You'd better take off that yellow sweater,' he said. 'You'll be shining like a light out there in the moonlight.'

  'I'll be all right.'

  'You will not,' he said. 'Take it off, Gordon, please. I'll see you in three minutes.'

  He disappeared into his hut behind the petrol station, and I went and changed my yellow sweater for a blue one.

  When we met again outside, Claud was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a dark-green sweater. On his head he wore a brown cloth cap pulled down low over his eyes.

  'What's under there?' I asked, staring at his unusually thick waist.

  He pulled up his sweater and showed me two very thin but very large white cotton bags tied neatly and tightly around his waist. 'To carry the stuff,' he said.

  'I see.'

  'Let's go,' he said.

  'I still think we ought to take the car.'

  'It's too risky. They'll see it parked.'

  'But it's over five kilometres up to that wood.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'And I suppose you realize we can get six months in prison if they catch us.'

  'You never told me that.'

  'Didn't I?'

  'I'm not coming,' I said. 'It's not worth it.'

  'The walk will be good for you, Gordon. Come on.'

  It was a calm, sunny evening, with little clouds hanging motionless in the sky, and the valley was cool and very quiet as the two of us began walking along the grass on the side of the road that ran between the hills towards Oxford.

  'Have you got the raisins?' Claud asked.

  'They're in my pocket.'

  'Good,' he said. 'Wonderful.'

  Ten minutes later, we turned left off the main road into a narrow side road with high bushes on either side, and then it was all uphill.

  'How many keepers are there?' I asked.

  'Three.'

  Claud threw away a half-finished cigarette and lit another. 'Don't tell anyone how we've done it, do you understand? Because if anyone heard, every fool in the district would do the same thing, and there wouldn't be a pheasant left.'

  'I won't say a word.'

  'You ought to be very proud of yourself,' he went on. 'There have been clever men studying this problem for hundreds of years, and not one of them's ever found anything even a quarter as clever as you have. Why didn't you tell me about it before?'

  'You never asked for my opinion,' I said.

  And that was the truth. In fact, until the day before, Claud had never even offered to discuss with me the subject of poaching. Often, on a summer's evening when work was finished, I had seen him disappearing up the road towards the woods; and sometimes as I watched him through the window of the petrol station, I would wonder exactly what he was going to do, what tricks he was going to practise all alone up there under the trees at night. He seldom came back until very late and he never, absolutely never, brought anything with him on his return. But the following afternoon - I couldn't imagine how he did it -there would always be a pheasant or a rabbit hanging up in the hut behind the petrol station.

  This summer he had been particularly active, and during the past couple of months he had been going out four and sometimes five nights a week. But that was not all. It seemed to me that recently his whole attitude to poaching had changed. He was more purposeful about it now, and I suspected that it had become a kind of private war against the famous Mr Victor Hazel himself. Mr Hazel was extremely