Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

He said, "Sure, why not?"

They looked at him in amazement which rapidly turned to amusement.

He added, "But I don't have any gear. Last time you said you could kit me out. That still on?"

His thinking was that he could probably drag out the process of being kitted out long enough for Woodbine to get in touch.

Latimer said, "No problem. In fact, it might give the rest of us a bit of a chance if you have to play with borrowed clubs, eh?"

They all laughed. There was malice in their laughter.

The bastards are really enjoying themselves, thought Joe. It made him uneasy. Seeing a bad golfer play badly couldn't be all that funny, could it?

In any case, he had no intention of actually trying to hit a ball!

He glanced around the terrace, hoping to see Porphyry with the look on his face that said Woodbine had rung to say their search had turned up a body. But there was no sign of him.

Latimer was urging him to his feet and the next moment they were walking down the steps from the terrace in the direction of the pro's shop.

It was now that Joe began to feel his will and muscle power melting. All he had to do of course was say, Hey, let's end this farce; you know who I am and what I'm doing here, and before very long you are going to be in deep doo-doo.

But somehow he couldn't utter the words. No great gambler himself, he recalled Merv Golightly, who would bet on the next bit of bird crap to hit his windscreen, saying, Never show your hand till the last card's dealt. Did that really apply here? Maybe, maybe not. All he knew was that his thoughts were flitting like a bat in a cellar trying to find a way out and coming up against stone walls and locked doors in every direction. In the shop, Chip Harvey looked slightly puzzled to see Joe in Latimer's company, and even more puzzled when the vice-captain explained what was happening. Latimer said, "Joe, I'm just going to go and get my own gear together. Chip, don't go digging out any fancy clubs for Mr. Sixsmith. He's scratch, you know, so we want to give him every disadvantage." He moved away, laughing. Joe looked after him with a distaste that, unusual for him, bordered on loathing. "Real funny guy," he said. "Why do they say "scratch" anyway? Because guys like me would be better off not starting? Or maybe because the way we play looks like scratching around?" Chip ignored the question and said anxiously, "Joe, what's going on?" "It's OK, Chip," said Joe, feeling sorry for the boy. "Really, everything's going to be sorted soon. Nothing for you to worry about. You just do as Latimer said, get me kitted out, but you needn't rush the job, OK?" The assistant pro brought him a selection of golf shoes that he tried on, some of them twice, till he found a pair that felt more comfortable than his own slip-ons. He stomped around the shop in them, then selected a club at random from a display rack and waggled it about. Chip said, "You're left handed then. That'll make things a bit harder." "No," said Joe. "I ain't a leftie." "You're not? Well, that's a left-handed club you've got." "Is it? Thought it felt kind of funny." He picked up one with the head facing the other way. It felt only slightly less funny. Chip had been watching him with growing unease. Now he burst out, "Joe, are you really scratch?" "Yeah, unless you can get worse than scratch, in which case, that's me." The young man let out a pained sigh and looked heavenward like a curate who's just been told that the ten commandments only apply where there's an F in the month. He said urgently, "Joe, you've got it so wrong. Being scratch means you're a very good golfer indeed. The worse you are, the bigger your handicap. So if your handicap's, say, eighteen, it means that a scratch golfer would give you a shot start on every hole!" "No, that can't be right," said Joe with confidence. The door opened and Tom Latimer called, "You about ready, Joe?" "Coming," Joe replied. "Just choosing my clubs."

"OK."

The door closed and Joe repeated, with less confidence this time, "That can't be right. Can it?" "You'd better believe it," said Chip in a low voice as he set a couple of golf bags before Joe. "You ever play golf before? Ever?" "Once went on a putting green in the park," said Joe, adding as he sought desperately for evidence that he was misinterpreting the young man, "You trying to tell me that scratch means you're good?" "It means you're very good. Very very good. Very very very good." There's no arguing with three verys. "Oh shoot," said Joe. "Never mind," said Chip, unhappy to see the distress he had caused. "It's really not a difficult game if you stick to the basics. Eye on the ball, head still, swing easy. Piece of cake."

It was clearly well intentioned, but to Joe it sounded like telling a man bound to a stake before a firing squad to watch out for flying bullets. He picked up the golf bag. It weighed a ton, but that didn't make much difference when your legs felt they were anchored in lead. Suddenly his determination not to get anywhere near the first tee blotted out everything else in his mind.

He emerged into the bright sunlight. He worked out that if he turned left and moved quick, he could be back at his car and using his phone to ring Woodbine and ask him what the shoot was holding him up before the Triangle noticed his disappearance.

But Tom Latimer was waiting for him just outside the door.

"This way, Joe," he said. "Thought we'd play the first two then cut through the woods by Jimmy Postgate's house and play ourselves in over the last three. See if you can carry the corner on the sixteenth like Chris sometimes does."

The mockery was almost open now.

Bastard! thought Joe.

The adrenaline surge of the hatred gave him strength to move forward with the man down a steep pathway toward what he guessed was the first tee. Surtees and Rowe were there already. They watched his approach with smiling bonhomie. It should have been a comfort to think that soon they'd be getting their comeuppance, but somehow he'd lost all confidence in his theories. He suspected that the only reason Willie Woodbine was going to make contact with him was to vent his fury.

"Now how shall we do this?" said Latimer as they reached the tee. "High-low takes, that all right with you, Joe? Means you'll have to carry me, but that's the penalty of excellence. OK by you?"

Joe didn't answer. He was staring down the tree-lined fairway which stretched away to a green so distant, he had to screw up his eyes to make out the flag.

Then he heard a murmur of voices and a ripple of laughter and, looking up, he saw to his horror that their path had taken them round the side of the clubhouse and the first tee was positioned right beneath one end of the terrace where so recently he'd been sitting sipping iced coffee. Directly above him, the ornate balustrade was lined with spectators, drinks in hand, like Romans in the Emperor's box, waiting for the gladiators to start the slaughter.

"By rights it should be low man's honor," said Latimer. "But as it's your first time here, Joe, we'll let these bandits show us the way, shall we?"

Joe looked at him blankly. Now was the time to have his heart attack, but somehow the presence of all these people looking down from above, while making it even more imperative that he put a stop to this farce, made it even harder to do so.

Rowe was on the tee. He placed a ball at his feet, then without ceremony and with very little evidence of effort, sent it soaring greenward. It took one mighty bounce, a couple of skips, then rolled forever and finally came to a halt right in the middle of the fairway at a distance that Joe's good eye reckoned as two eighty or two ninety yards.

There was a ripple of applause from above.

Surtees took his turn. More methodical than Rowe, he had three studied practice swings before cracking his ball away to finish some fifteen yards behind his partner.