A simple farmer receives a horse from the gods, a man sells ice creams named after missing schoolkids, the demolition of a hotel brings an old horror to light, a wounded soldier finds the real enemy is in his own camp, a family inherits a peculiar r...
The light was failing by the time they reached the eighteenth hole. Mr. Green had shot a par and seven birdies. He was ecstatic.
"Seven under," he said. "I don't think anyone has ever scored seven under here. Although he is also seven under," he added, glancing over at Smith.
As if he had been called, Smith came silently over. "Do you always play this well?" he said.
"Oh. Sometimes."
"Really?"
"Well, no." Mr. Green said, with a snorting laugh.
Smith's eyes glinted. "You truly are having the game of your life," he said softly. In the wood behind them a bird sang one long and lonely note, and something large crashed through the undergrowth.
Quint followed Mr. Green up to the tee. He stood there, screwing his shirt up in his hands, as Mr. Green placed his ball. Mr. Green pretended that Quint wasn't there.
Quint stepped between Mr. Green and the ball.
"What?" Mr Green snapped. "What is it?"
"I was thinking. Perhpas you should, uh -"
"Perhaps I should what?"
"Concede. I think you should concede." There, it was out.
"What are you talking about?" Then Mr. Green broke into a smile. "Oh. You're joking."
Quint shook his head.
Mr. Green laughed. "Quint. You have a screw loose. I've always suspected it, but now I know for sure."
Mr. Green commenced his launch preparations. Quint lumbered back to the buggy, took the scorecard out, and added up the numbers again. His math was fine.
The eighteenth was a three hundred and fifty metre par four. The green lay out of sight beyond the crest of a long hill: the only thing visible was the flag, a speck of fluoro orange in the deepening twilight.
Mr. Green took two practice swings. A bird chirruped in the undergrowth and he waited for it to stop. Finally, he hit the ball. It rocketed, climbing as if mounting steps, and vanished into the dusk. It reappeared almost two hundred and fifty metres up the hill, on the left hand side of the fairway, about a metre in from the rough.
Mr. Green pumped a fist in the air.
Slow, dry clapping came from nearby.
Smith approached the tee, a knotty antique driver tucked under his arm. A strange silence fell, as if every bird and insect had suddenly dropped dead. He swung in his strangely crouched, crablike way. The shot went higher than Mr. Green's had, and landed short of it. Smith was moving back to his buggy before the ball stopped moving, and was the first to head up the fairway. He seemed hungry to finish the game. Mr. Green strutted along a short way behind. Quint came last.
Smith's second shot was low and straight. It bounced on the crest of the hill then rolled out of sight. The eighteenth had a large green: Quint knew from experience that the ball would be on it.
"Hmmph," said Mr. Green.
"Mr. Gr -" Quint began.
"Shut. Up."
As soon as Mr. Green struck the ball Quint knew the shot had gone wide. Mr. Green swore. The ball hit the crest of the hill, but then it got a lucky bounce, and wobbled back towards the pin, before rolling out of sight. Mr. Green laughed out loud.
Quint thought he heard a soft chuckle from behind them.
Finally they reached the top of the hill. There was only one ball on the green, lying a foot from the pin. Quint went over and crouched down beside it. It was ancient and mustard-coloured. He looked up and saw Smith watching him from the apron, his golf bag propped up like a dog beside him.
Mr. Green, meanwhile, was scouting around the back of the green. He wasn't having much luck finding his ball. Then, suddenly, his face changed. He strode to the pin and pulled it out. A golf ball came out with it. His.
"An eagle!" Mr. Green cried."A bloody eagle! I don't bloody believe it!"
He held the ball up to the remaining light, gazing at it with wonder. Then he strode over to Smith and held out his hand.
"You have beaten me," Smith said, smiling. "Congratulations."
Then his golf bag ate Mr. Green.
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