DELANCY: Secrets in the Shadows

CHAPTER 57

My eyes were drinking in the blinding darkness. I felt my heart beating fast in my chest, each thud quickening my breathing and increasing the unpleasant build-up of sweat on my palms. My nails dug into his hand; my fingers bound to his in a sudden paralysis. It seemed the same had occurred to everyone else – nobody dared speak, for what if it was simply part of the movie? Speak and you’d ruin the atmosphere. Speak and you would become excluded and asked to leave. So, what if I was asked to leave? I yearned to leave the cinema right now, to run out into the room with the colourful popcorn-stained carpet, illuminated by the flashing lights of the arcade, and know nothing abnormal had happened. It was just part of the movie. I was fine. It had to be just part of the movie. I had to be fine.

I forced myself to jaggedly move my hand and intertwine my fingers with his. I tried to steady my breathing. I tried to compose my thoughts. What was the worst-case scenario? A power cut. Yes – a power cut. And a power cut couldn’t harm me. I just wished he’d speak. His fingers remained numb, woven with mine. I began to rub the back of his hand soothingly, praying he’d stir – he stayed lifeless. I couldn’t even make out the rough shape of his head in the choking obscurity.

“Hello?”

My heart skipped a beat, my breath lingering ominously in the air, hanging on for a reply. I was met with only a cold silence, hope spilling out of me.

Joltingly – with a flash that struck my eyes quite alike lightning – the lights flickered on. Nothing had changed from before, except the fact that I could feel a hundred piercing stares on me. The whole room had their eyes on me. Even he had his eyes on me. I squirmed in my seat, flexing my sweaty hand in his grasp, my head down in embarrassment. I swallowed hard. Did they think I did something?

Wait.

A person. There was a person in front of me. A freakishly-built figure: muscles so large veins popped from them; a deep coppery skin tone that seemed closer to the texture of a metal the way it caught the light; a powerful stance that alone, without me even glancing at their face, I could tell they meant business. And their stare was the strongest; it pierced through me, shuffling through all my fears and memories like they were simple playing cards, to be disregarded. Everything I stood for meant nothing if this figure did not approve. And with every single fiber of my existence, I prayed he approved.

I felt extensive, robust fingers lift my chin up, and suddenly I was hastily taking in what was the person’s face with a histrionic gasp. A man, and such a stunning man it was. His eyes gazed down at me, his intellectual eyes commanding yet a soft chocolate brown. Vivid curls of striking ebony sat agreeably on top of his head, flattering every single feature. He had an impeccably crafted nose right above delicately thin lips, curled into a tremendous smirk. He was smirking at my patheticness, how I sunk into my chair in a throbbing fear, despite how I marveled at his appearance. His look – no, his everything: how he stared deep into my soul, his stance strong and intimidating, how he could terrify me by doing so little at all – was all too sharply familiar. The realization struck me tougher than my palsy when the lights initially turned off. The villain from the movie I had been serenely viewing not long before closed my open jaw gently, his smirk ceaseless.

“I wouldn’t gape, love. Your boyfriend is right next to you.”

I glanced nervously to my side, where my hand continued knotted with his. My eyes widened until I felt as if they were about to pop: blood spooled down his front, deep stains of a rusty crimson. There seemed to be no injury, however I knew for sure he was dead. Lifeless. Gone. His chest was awfully still, and his skin had drained from all the colour it had ever had. And I mean that literally. Once he had had gorgeous deep brown skin, and now all that remained was a thin translucent layer, tangled with veins and capillaries. I swallowed, dismayed. My stomach grumbled in disagreement, nausea swelling inside me. I began to feel light headed and my vision swam. Seeing him like this had opened up an ancient wound I had hoped I would never have to revisit.

Now processing what I had just seen, I tried to scream. I tried to scream a scream that would shake the room. One that would deafen everyone in a fifty-meter radius. Nothing tumbled out my mouth; my vocal cords seemed stuck and rigid. I shook my hand free of his, clasping it with my other one and rubbing it as if I was nursing it back to health.

“Trying to thank me, love? You know, I saw that and thought of you.”

I realised his finger remained delicately placed under my chin. I pulled myself away, but that only forced him to move closer, his horrible smirk right up in my face. My throat tautened with every sly breath he respired onto my face, constricted in dread; I could scarcely make out his elegant features as my vision continued to fail.

“Don’t,” he hissed menacingly, so that none of the still staring onlookers could hear, “try to defy me.”

I yelped desperately. “What do you want? Why me? Why not anyone else here?”

A chuckle echoed menacingly around the room. “Have you ever realised you’d make an incredibly picturesque housing ornament?”

My mouth went bone dry; all senses numb. Not that I had any use for them now, anyway. I looked up to him, my eyes pleading.

“N-no-”

He laughed again. “Surprise, surprise.”

A swift flash of silver, it all returned to black.

***

“So, is there anything you don’t get?” Connie asked, resting his tattooed hands on the steering wheel of the Ford F-Series pickup. A Cottonmouth snake—perhaps one of Connie’s victims—curled around each muscled forearm with an open mouth—ready to strike— on the back of each hand. A similar tattoo arose from the collar of his shirt, traversed his neck, and disappeared onto the top of his bald head. I noticed it during my induction. Connie bent down to tie his shoes, and I got a front row view of the head of a Rattlesnake, venom dripping from its fangs.

Nice!

I’m not a big tattoo guy, but I kind of liked the honesty of Connie’s decorations. He was a pest removalist, who’d covered his body with his work. A Wolf spider peered from a web on his neck. Mice and rats with fleas on their backs scampered between the coils of the snakes on his forearms. I couldn’t see underneath his work shirt, but there was no doubt cockroaches and ants inhabited his torso. No doubt at all.

“Pete. Get your head in the game. Anything you need to go over?”

Yeah, plenty I thought, including why a man as an intimidating as my new boss could have such a gender neutral name. “No, I’m good, Connie. I got it down.”

“Then don’t look so worried, kid! Look, this ain’t like that ‘Snakes on a Plane’ film. Nothing like that at all. You hearing me? Mrs Blanchard is a repeat customer. She’ll want to make you a cup of so-so coffee. You’ll find and remove the one grass snake that’s making her life hell. You’ll look all professional and s**t. She’s a big tipper so do a good job. You’ll walk back to the office totting said grass snake. I’ll see you there for lunch. What could go wrong?”

The rhetorical question hung heavy in the air. Despite not requiring an answer, I wanted to affirm the crap out of that sucker with a high five, but the new ‘Pests Cease and Desist!’ coveralls I’d been shovelled into prevented any movement above the waist while seated. “Connie, you sure you don’t have the next size up?”

“Nah, man. Sorry, didn’t expect you to be so tall. If you work out, I’ll get some on order. Now hop out. I got to get over to a rat infestation. Less of course, you want to swap?”

I weighed ‘rat infestation’ and ‘one grass snake’. It took no time at all. Pulling the handle on the passenger side door of the Ford, I clambered out and stood in the street. I slouched a little to close the gap: my coveralls finished well before my socks started. Grabbing my snake wrangling kit from the front seat, I shot Connie a devil-may-care smile.

“Like I said, kid, don’t look so worried!” Connie said, leaning over to pull the door closed and hitting the hammer. The tyres on the Ford squealed and the truck accelerated up the street, reminding me a lot of a getaway scene in a movie. Surely, the funk of a panicked newbie wasn’t that offensive?

Moving as slowly as I could without appearing to be intentionally moving slowly, I walked up the path of Mrs Blanchard’s house. It was a great neighbourhood, all cultivated lawns, white picket fences, and beautifully maintained, high-end houses. Feeling a little anxious, my faint hope was that the grass snake had moved on. My fainter hope was that the grass snake would be representative of the neighbourhood and politely stroll into the sack for removal from the property. Had I known, I would have peeled off those nasty coveralls, and with my new found mobility, got out of Dodge

Standing on the welcome mat with my snake wrangling kit in hand, I pressed the doorbell. A single push gave rise to an appealing peal: bells after church on a Sunday kind of thing, but the tune quickly darkened. I’m not religious or a Metallica fan, but I swear to the Gods of Rock, the churchyard whimsey mutated into ‘Enter Sandman’.

As expected as it was, I took a step back when the door swung open. It turned out to be a good thing, as if I hadn’t, I doubt I could have taken in the glory of Mrs Blanchard without looking twice: she was a big woman. The short sleeved floral dress she wore highlighted the sides of beef hanging from the back of each of her arms. Her chins, of which there were many, propped up a head that could only have been stolen from Easter Island. She wasn’t a tall lady, but man she sure had some girth. Connie’s claim that Mrs Blanchard was a big tipper suddenly made sense.

“Hi Mrs Blanchard. I’m Pete from Pests Cease and Desist,” I said, pointing lamely at the branding on my coveralls. “I’m here to remove a grass snake.”

Mrs Blanchard looked over my shoulder before casting her eye over me. “Where’s Connie?” she snapped.

“Rat infestation.”

“Connie has a rat infestation?”

“No ma'am. He’s dealing with one. If you prefer, we can wait until he’s free.”

Mrs Blanchard squinted, causing her eyes to sink slowly into her face, like meatballs dropped into a casserole. “He’s had a rat infestation before you know,” she said mysteriously, before indicating I should enter with a hand the size of a stop/go traffic paddle.

I crept across the threshold, the last chimes of ‘Enter Sandman’ still echoing through the house. “Where’s the last place you saw the snake, ma'am?”

“Backyard. Follow me,” she said, walking down a hallway into the depths of the house.

A false sense of security swept over me following Mrs Blanchard through the house. I crept behind her, like a soldier taking cover behind a M1 Abrams tank, marvelling at the contents of the house. Everything was 10XL size or more. Furniture, undoubtedly handmade and all kinds of sturdy, inhabited the rooms. As we passed a bedroom, I caught a glimpse of a bed of wonderous proportions. It was large enough for Goldilocks to have found a space that was ‘just right’ without moving cots.

Entering the kitchen, Mrs Blanchard motioned me towards the backdoor. “He’s out there. How do you take your coffee?”

“As it comes, ma’am,” I said, bravely ignoring Connie’s warning about the coffee. Stepping out into the backyard, snake hook in hand, wishing my coveralls were actually covering all, I cast about for the grass snake. After exhausting all possible hidey-holes I could spy from the back step, I took a breath and ventured into the wilds of Mrs Blanchard’s backyard.

And it was wild.

The garden wouldn’t have been out of place in an Amazonian rainforest. All it was missing was the beat of a drum announcing my presence. Instead, the air was thick with the trill of insects, a grass snake’s delight. Mindful of the inch of flesh between the top of my socks and the bottom of my coveralls, I crouched and crept forward, my snake hook at the ready.

Following a path of mowed grass, the only vegetation that wasn’t as high as an elephants eye, I found myself amongst a field of sunflowers. All of the flowers were mature, so faced east, not at all interested in following the sun, which was sailing towards the top of the sky. Holding my breath, I parted the sunflowers and searched for my prey. As if commanded, the insects stopped trilling. While no drums were beaten, it was a clear message I shouldn’t have ignored.

“You should really us—s—se the s—s—snake tong. The hook’s—s—s only for experienced s—s—snake wranglers, and you aren’t that.”

Startled, I stood, confused as to how Mrs Blanchard could have possibly crept up on me. Turning, I expected to see her with a steaming cup of bad coffee in a balled fist, the other hand on her mountainous hips.

A snicker from the depth of the sunflowers told me it was not Mrs Blanchard.

“Who are you? Show yourself,” I said, taking a step back.

“It’s—s—s just me. Don’t worry. I’m quite harmless—s—s.”

A green grass snake slithered from the sunflowers. Behind its head, there was a collar of white. It’s eyes were bright and brown. It’s voice, well there ain’t no words to describe a snake’s voice cause’ there’s no such thing. The best I can come up with is a persuasive tone and an overwhelming emphasis on the letter ‘s’.

“Connie told me you were coming,” the snake hissed.

I juggled the snake hook in my hands, undecided on a course of action.

“If it’s any s—s—solace, Connie was the s—s—same the firs—s—st time we met,” the snake claimed, sliding gracefully towards the bare skin between coverall and sock. “It’s s—s OK. I don’t bite.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, taking another step back.

The snake stopped in mid-slither. “I’m s—s—sorry. I’m making you feel uncomfortable. I s—s—should have said, I can’t bite. Allow me to as—s—sure you of that. Come clos—s—se. Many people find my voice quite s—s—soothing. My name’s S—S—Simon. As in S—S—Simon S—S—Says—s—s. Do you know that game?”

“Sure. I played it as a kid.”

“I played it with Connie years—s—s ago,” Simon explained, rearing up. “He was called by Mrs—s—s Blanchard to remove a s—s—s snake from this wonderful jungle. That s—s—snake was me: quite the s—s—snake in the gras—s—s. We played S—S—Simon S—S—Says—s—s, and I talked him out of removing me. S—s—such a good man. Don’t you jus—s—st love those tattoos—s—s?”

“I think I’ll give it a miss—s—s,” I said, shaking my head, hoping to clear the ‘s—s—s’ from my vocabulary. Like I said, Simon was persuasive.

“OK, Pete! The alternative to playing S—S—Simon S—S—Says—s—s. It’s another game: ‘S—S—Snakes ‘n Ladders—s—s. Do you know that game, Pete?” Simon said, rearing higher as if to strike.

“S—S—Sure S—S—Simon.”

“Is that yes—s—s to playing S—S—Snakes ‘n Ladders—s—s, Pete? I have my own vers—s—sion. All s—s—snakes, not one ladder.”

If Simon possessed hands, he would have given the ‘come out, come out, wherever you are’ signal at that point of the conversation. Around me, the jungle rustled and grass snakes, numerous in number, crawled from the foliage, coiling around each other in a boiling mass of slithering sinew, blocking my path back to the house.

“Before you s—s—say anything you’d regret, I’ve watched the film ‘S—S—Snakes on a Plane’, s—s—so I’m aware of how many s—s—snakes—s—s S—S—Samuel L Jacks—s—son thinks—s—s to be s—s—sufficient on a plane,” Simon said, tongue dancing in the air. “While I have a tremendous—s—s res—s—spect for the man as an actor. His—s—s math is off. Too many s—s—snakes is jus—s—st the s—s—start. Shall we play S—S—Simon S—S—Say s—s—s, Pete?”

Simon’s friends had found the gap between my coveralls and socks. I froze as they crawled up my legs under my coveralls, bypassed my tighty whities, and wrapped themselves around my chest and neck. “Yes—s—s” I said. “Let’s—s—s play.”

“Good,” Simon whispered. “S—S—Simon S—S—Says—s—s if you ever attend a call where a homeowner thinks—s—s there are grass snakes—s—s in their backyard, you will claim there is only one and you have removed it. I will take care of the res—s—st.”

Simon signalled again, somehow, and his friends released me.

***

I wasn’t sure how I’d got back to the house, but I got there. “How’s the coffee, dear” Mrs Blanchard asked, holding out a plate filled with pineapple upside down cake.

It was the only truth Connie had uttered in the short ride from the office, and he’d even scrimped on that: the coffee tasted like s**t. “Great, Ma’am. Thank you so much. I’ve really got to be going, though.”

“Oh, OK. Say Connie I said ‘Hi’,” she replied, smiling broadly.

Although it happened quickly, I was sure of what I saw. Mrs Blanchard’s tongue slipped over her lips and sampled the air, forks waving in opposite directions.

I retraced my steps to the front door, no longer marvelling at the contents of the house, and escaped to the street, where Connie waited in his Ford. I thought to run, but he rolled down the window, and in a persuasive tone and an overwhelming emphasis on the letter ‘s’ said, “S—S—Simon S—S—Says get in we’ve got work to do,” his forked tongue as lively as Mrs Blanchard’s.

I climbed into the Ford and ruminated on the day. Connie was right. It wasn’t like the film Snakes on a Plane at all. It was much worse than that.