The Writers' Circle

An evil pile of coils lies on the top of the brick column in the space where it meets the tin roof. No head is visible - just a speckled green, brown and black of shining rope and scales.

Down below the chickens are in a frenzy, scolding the snake and venting their terror. Their fluffy, empty-headed children are gone and the serial chicken-child murderer has evidential lumps all along its sinuous body. 

From the door of the chicken house all I see is the chaos below and the brooding horror above. I have no idea how big it is or what its name is. Behind me the farm workers gather and peer over my shoulder, reassured by the shot gun over my forearm. The panicked chickens are running between my feet and out into the farmyard, clucking and squabbling and raising dust - from the fangs of possible death straight into the jaws of certain death as the pack of farm dogs spot their chicken dinner and begin to bark and chase.

I have heard it said that if we were a race of super chickens rather than super monkeys we would see the devil as a hawk, not a snake, but these chickens are acting as if the devil were hard behind them. I wonder if I represent the devil to snakes - for I am going to kill this monster for sure - as soon as the blood begins to flow to my frozen brain again.

'Shoot, Madam', Sakere says. 'Shoot the nyoka (snake) before he runs'. 

My finger is paralysed on the trigger. I stare stupidly at the coils above me and feel my head whip from side to side - seeking an alternative. There is only me. I am alone on the farm with the workers, the children and the gun. The buck stops with me - I am the one with the gun.

Once again I curse the man who has brought me and my children to this barbaric place where super-snakes sneak into chicken houses and devour chicken-children. At times like this my mind goes back to Winteringham - to snowdrops and hedgehogs and other harmless hedgerow creatures - to people who chat about the weather and complain about public services.

I load bird shot into the breech with shaking hands. I know that in my whole life I will never forget this moment. This one moment when the king of snakes came to visit my chicken house and I shot him to hell. If I could only remember what comes next after you load the cartridges.

The crowd at my shoulder is getting loud. Their fear is a palpable thing with a smell like the mouth of hell. They strain forward, balanced on tiptoes, ready to run at the first sign of movement from the snake. Precious, the laundry maid is making a strange ululating sound. Grab the hammer, pull it back, release the safety catch. That's it! That's it! Next? 

Precious attaches her well-washed brown hand to my arm and squeezes - hard.
 'You are our mother! You must kill it!' she pleads. Sakere has to prise her fingers off me. 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiih!'.

'Pull the trigger, Madam. You must get him while he lies there. Quickly Madam'.

I swallow the bile in my throat, raise the .410 to my left shoulder and, with both eyes shut I try to take aim and wonder why everything has gone black. Dear God! The snake can see me and I can't see it! The darkness is terrifying! Open the left eye, fool! All I see now is coils of venomous slime. My primordial fear sees no creature of blood, nerves and bone - only a mortal enemy. You or me Mr Snake! Bloodlust mingled with fear threatens my aim but I squeeze and release and the shock of the recoil slams into my shoulder. The crowd draws its breath, there is a hush while the earth stands still and then the shrieking starts and hands are raised and shaken at the sky. How! How! How!

As the birdshot connects with reptilian tissue the loathsome coils begin to fall from the ceiling. Down they come and down and still more - falling into the straw below with a sickening thud that lives on in the dark places of my worst nightmares. And then the flat arrowhead and the poisonous eyes - there is one more cartridge in the breech and it finds its mark in the nick of time. The black jaws open in a yellow/white diamond and the dripping fangs hiss in an ecstasy of death.

The crowd is screaming and running round the yard after the chickens. It is hard to tell humans from chickens and the dogs are not choosy - yapping and snapping at heels and claws, front paws low on the ground and tails wagging in the air. 'Ai, ai, ai,' screams Precious wiggling her fat aarse and slapping the ground with her bare feet.

The king cobra lies still in the straw on the floor of the chicken house, its belly-full of fluffy chicks ripped open and its head blown off. Sakere is in charge now, fetching a stick and prodding the body with arm at full stretch, standing as far back as he can, away from the snake. He knows I could never touch this carcass.

The cobra is seven feet and six inches long, its middle as thick as a drainpipe. Its tattered body is hung from a hook above the wood-burning water boiler in the yard. It remains there, hung, drawn and quartered like a medieval miscreant on Tower Bridge until Sakere, satisfied that all have seen my kill, stuffs it into the boiler where it writhes and squirms one last time, thrashing the ashes and burning logs with renewed life, sending sparks flying into the air. The crowd howls its satisfaction.

Inside the cool, quiet kitchen I take a knife from the drawer and make one more notch on the stock of the .410 - no not just a notch - a huge gouge - because this was the Grandaddy of all snakes that visited my yard and thought to have a chicken snack before taking a nap at the scene of his crime. Back home he would have had a KFC take-away and been safe with his snaky wife tonight, dreaming of little girls or prowling internet chat rooms.