Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Handicap


Gillian paused at the end of Cloister Drive. Flashing lights at three in the morning was never good news and she climbed to the flat roof of number 24’s extension to get a better view. An ambulance and two police cars were parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, doing their best to make a drama out of a crisis.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the confused voice of a man in handcuffs. “I got home and there she was, sleeping with John Harris from next door but one. I just lost it, I think.” He swayed backwards against the police car. “I’m not a violent man. You ask her. Ask Jenis.”

“We will, sir,” said Police Sergeant Mike Brandsford. “My colleague is in your house talking to her at the moment. She’s in a state of shock.”

The man cheered at the news? “She’s all right then?”

“Yes sir, she’s fine.” The sergeant flicked shone a torch into his face for a moment. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same of your neighbour, Barbara Harris, the lady you beat to death with a number four golf club. Her husband witnessed you doing it before escaping through the toilet window. You were in the wrong house, sir, and I put it to you that you’ve been drinking.”

“It was Larry’s birthday…”

“Nevertheless, sir, judging by the number of swings you used to cave in Mrs. Harris’ head I have one further question.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s your golf handicap?”



Image: The Search for the Perfect Golf Club

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4 comments:

aims said...

*groaning*

Leatherdykeuk said...

:)

stephanie said...

Oh, dear. I wouldn't want to meet him for a round either. ;)

Terrible mistake brilliantly written.

Leatherdykeuk said...

Thanks Steph :)