Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

Now it was Latimer. He was a real fusspot, standing behind his ball as if taking very precise aim, before doing some stretching exercises followed by half a dozen practice swings. Above, someone yawned audibly and there was a snort of quickly stifled laughter. Finally he addressed the ball and after staring at it for what even to Joe, who was happy to wait forever, seemed a hell of a long time, he swung.

It wasn't a bad hit; a bit misdirected, so that at first it looked like it was heading toward the l eft-hand trees, then it curved back into the fairway, bounced, ran to the right-hand edge, and came to a halt some thirty yards back from Rowe's ball.

"Sorry about that, Joe," said Latimer, shaking his head in rather stagy disappointment. "Lucky I've got you to put things straight."

Joe advanced on to the tee. Each step was the last before his dodgy knee buckled beneath him. Each second was the one before he had his seizure. But somehow he kept taking the steps and somehow the seconds kept ticking by. Perhaps it was his certainty that he physically couldn't do this that kept him going. Why fake illness when any moment now you really were going to collapse in a heap?

But the collapse never came and finally here he was, adrift in space, looking down at that little white orb so many light years away, and waiting in vain for a black hole to open and swallow him up.

The silence was absolute. Not a sound from the terrace above. His three companions stood behind the tee still as statues. Even the birds had stopped singing.

But there was sound in that silence. Now he could hear it, though he doubted if anyone else could. The sound that Porphyry had told him about, the sound that was less intrusive than the music of the spheres to normal human hearing but disruptively cacophonous to the golfer, destroying all his powers of concentration and co-ordination.

He could hear the roar of the butterflies in the adjacent meadow.

Time for the farce to end. All he had to do was step back and say in front of everybody, Listen, you bastards, you may have stitched up poor Chris Porphyry, but you ain't going to make a fool out of me.

He took a deep breath and tried to persuade his feet to take that step back. Nothing happened. Oh shoot. Collapse was one thing, petrifaction was another. Maybe they'd all just tiptoe away and leave him be. Maybe in years to come people would pay cash money to come and see the famous statue of the man who turned to stone at Royal Hoo.

Maybe…

He said a prayer, but he doubted if it could be heard beyond the stars, so loud now were the butterflies.

But somehow it got through, for from high above he heard a voice reply.

"Joe!" the voice called. "Joe!"

He looked up and wouldn't have been surprised to see a circling dove or two.

There were no doves, but he beheld an infinitely more welcome sight.

It was indeed the voice of god, a Young Fair God, holding up a mobile phone.

Yes, still young and fair, but now Christian's face was the face of a very vengeful deity.

"They found him, Joe. They found him. They're on their way."

Even as he spoke, Joe realized that the faraway sound that had so paralyzed him wasn't a roar of butterflies or anything else. It was the high-pitched, rhythmic wail of sirens, still a long way away but approaching fast, and now detectable by the terrace spectators, who broke their own expectant silence with speculative chatter.

Joe turned his head and looked at the Triangle. They too had heard and their faces were twisted in fearful speculation.

He smiled at them. Now at last his muscles unlocked and he felt he had the strength to step away.

On the other hand, there was a YFG above him, and Joe knew from his upbringing that while God might not dish out His grace too frequently, when He did, there was no stinting and a wise man filled his boots.

He brought to mind what Chip Harvey had said.

Eye on the ball, head still, swing easy.

He swung so easy, without any sense of contact, that for a second he was convinced he must have missed. Except that the ball that the eye in his perfectly still head was on wasn't there.

On the terrace the spectators forgot about the sirens and fell silent again, a silence quickly broken by the hiss of in-drawn breath. Of many in-drawn breaths.

He looked up and saw his ball. At least he saw someone's ball, though it was so distant and receding so fast he couldn't really believe it was his.

It was still high in the air when it passed over Latimer's, it made first contact with the ground a yard or so beyond Surtees', its first bounce took it past Rowe's, and it continued for a good fifty yards before finally coming to rest in the middle of the fairway.

From the terrace above came a rattle of applause, a rumble of cheers, and even, despite the fact that this was the Royal Hoo, a skirl of appreciative whistles that turned into gasps of horror as the first police car appeared, making directly for the clubhouse straight up the sacred fairway. One thing about Willie Woodbine, he knew how to make an entrance. Joe turned and walked off the tee. Chip had been right. It was an easy game. And the roar of the butterflies was nothing but applause for a job well done. The Bermuda Triangle stood stock still, looking as petrified as he'd felt only a few moments earlier. As he passed them, he gave them an almost sympathetic smile. "Gotcha!" said Joe.