Shadow of the Serpent by Ashton David

Author:Ashton, David [Ashton, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780857900326
Publisher: Birlinn
Published: 2011-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

27

Come forth thy fearful man:

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet

The Serpent held out a hand before him and noticed the fingers to tremble a little. That was good. Nerves. A man without nerves was a fool who deceived himself.

He moved over to the window and looked out over the lights of the city glittering fitfully in the darkness. He had already been out earlier in that darkness, to set the scene as it were. But now he had returned to wait for the appointed hour.

Some solid banks of fog were beginning to build up. That was good, good for business. What was it the old fellow, regimental batman, ancient mariner, whose gnarled hands were supposed to attend to his every need, had said this morning as he scraped out the ashes?

‘We’ll hae a sea haar the nicht. I feel it in my bones. Cauld as the grave, sir.’

He mimicked the near-incomprehensible accent perfectly, speaking aloud in the silent room, then moved restlessly away from the window to regard himself once more in the stained, cracked, full-length mirror.

Now, there was no going back. Now, it had to be done.

Had the word from the South been cheerier, the early election forecast more promising, he may have considered a halt to the mission. But no, let’s be honest old chap, even with the advent of good tidings, the matter must run its course. He had the taste for blood now.

And it was such splendid sport, to be out in the field once more, not sending others out to risk for him.

It was all a matter of timing. When to play the cards.

On an impulse, he tried to mould his features to those of Benjamin Disraeli, the drooping eyes he could manage but not that splendid nose, that would need some construction. The mouth was possible, hinted at a certain lubriciousness, a delving into dark corners. The reflected mouth smiled at the thought.

For had Disraeli not written, possibly on his knees at the time, to the comely Lord Henry Lennox, ‘I am henceforth your own property, to do what you like with …’?

He dropped the pretence and sneered at himself. But was he not the same? A creature to be used? An instrument, not of pleasure though, but of ruin? His potency dependent on those above? In this case, not even the dignity of direct command, a suggestion here, an implication there, an elegant oblique silence after a subject raised.

A creature. That was all.

The Serpent was suddenly filled with the venom of self-hatred. He spat, quite deliberately, into his own face and watched as the saliva slid down his mirror image.

Then he cheered up immensely. Good to get that off one’s chest. Think of the rewards from on high. Favours bestowed. The power granted. Beyond his peers. No one would deny him. He would be indispensable. Above all others.

Nerves, that was it. Before going into action. Not long now, this was the tricky one, trick o’ the light, all depended on the timing, repeating himself, not a good idea.

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