Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [87]
‘In what way?’
‘Well, for example, hiding under a stone or the like.’
‘Now you come to mention it, yes it has. Thought it was ’cos it was ill.’
‘It’s no illness,’ I said, straightening up. ‘It’s ecdysis.’
Mr Thomson’s wind-etched features creased in concern. He scraped his hand across the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘No, not really. The tarantula’s sloughing. As you may know, spiders don’t have skeletons like us but moult, casting off their old exoskeletons.’ My biology notes came flooding back. I spouted on, clearly impressing Mr Thomson … and myself.
He phoned the next day to confirm that the exoskeleton had completely split and a new, gleaming, altogether larger tarantula had crawled out.
‘Just wait ’til you see him,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘He’s huge.’
I shuddered, hoping that wait would be a very long time.
Meanwhile, Beryl wasn’t waiting, bless her black, woolly stockings. She seemed determined to whip up more exotics for me and I did wonder whether she was systematically going through the West Sussex telephone directories, cold-calling people to see if they had any unusual pets that needed treating. It didn’t surprise me, therefore, when she rubbed her liver-spotted hands together, bounced up and down on her stool and crowed, ‘Paul, I’ve got a treat in store for you. A Mr Patel is bringing in a snake.’
I felt my heart constrict as if a boa – and not of the feather variety – had already slid round it.
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she added.
Pleased? She thought I’d be pleased? What a load of cobras.
No one was around when Mr Patel turned up for his appointment. Funny that. Beryl was conveniently in the loo while Mandy and Lucy suddenly disappeared into the depths of Prospect House.
‘You’re all namby-pambies,’ I said to myself, echoing Eric’s sentiments. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’ But then why were my legs trembling so much as I ushered Mr Patel in?
I’d had visions of a slim, brown-silk skinned, turban-headed man, flute under one arm, carrying an Ali Baba basket; but that was just me being silly. The turbaned Mr Patel didn’t have a flute. The Ali Baba basket he was carrying he lifted on to the consulting table and pushed towards me. In the absence of fluted music to entice whatever was in the basket out, I suggested Mr Patel did the honours with his hands.
‘No sweat, mate,’ he said in a breezy cockney accent and lifted the lid to pull out coil after coil of snake.
My throat went into spasm. ‘Big, isn’t it?’ I croaked and backed away as the snake weaved across the table towards me, knocking the basket to one side.
‘Quite a size … 2.1 metres to be precise … though anacondas can grow much bigger.’ Mr Patel grasped a coil of gleaming snake, its dark green, black-spotted flanks twisting in his hands, dragging him on to the table. ‘He’s a strong lad,’ he added as he pulled at the snake, making the table and snake lurch forward while I lurched back. ‘Sid’s a bit frisky. Should have put him in the fridge before coming. It would have quietened him down.’ He jerked the snake’s head away from my coat pocket.
Sid flicked out his tongue before, with a smooth, gliding movement, he slithered over Mr Patel’s wrist and proceeded to advance up his arm, wrapping himself round and round as he inched up to his shoulder.
I didn’t have to ask what was wrong, it was all too obvious. Protruding from Sid’s mouth was a plug – an ordinary, white, 13-amp, three-pin plug.
‘How come?’ I asked, pointing a shaky finger.
‘Not sure, to be honest. But I think it was probably the rat I gave him last night. Guess some of the blood must have spilt on his heating pan.’
‘You mean …?’
‘’Fraid so, mate. He’s swallowed the pad. And I can’t pull the damned thing out. See?’ Mr Patel yanked at the plug, an inch of flex appeared, but no more. ‘Bugger, ain’t it?’
‘Stop!’ I said hastily. ‘You might rip his stomach open.’
‘Me thinks you might have to do that to get it out.’