by Brian Alford
Frowning Wingco became even more suspicious as he looked around but could see no flies; it was the middle of winter. Unaware of the strange activity, the smiling and unsuspecting Soyoung filled the glasses. Without hesitation Henry emptied his glass in one noisy gulp and glared suspiciously at Colin whose face was a model of total impassiveness. Bill, Colin and Vic pretended to sip the drink trying desperately not to laugh. A confused Bob absent-mindedly sipped the drink in his normal leisurely manner. After a first taste, Wingco’s suspicions had reached even greater heights and he strained his head to look at the label on the bottle Soyoung was still clutching.
To complete the bonding of the friendship, Soyoung raised his glass in a mock toast, grinned and drain the contents in one swallow. His reaction was instantaneous and with bulging eyes he spat out the drink in disgust. “Agh!” In total disgust the muttering man thumped the bottle of Scotch on the bar and left.
Bill could contain his mirth no more. “Is that some sort of Japanese custom?”
“Wingco was far from amused. “What the hell’s the matter with this Scotch? Where did it come from?”
Colin shrugged his shoulders in complete innocence. “Don’t ask me. I only work here.”
Henry snorted with derision. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
Colin was about to respond but stopped when he saw Henry pick up the bottle and pour himself a generous glass full. Watched in stunned silence by the others, Henry drained the glass.
Colin wallowed in his triumph over his adversary. “Not a bad drop of Scotch eh Henry?”
“Mmm, not really. Its pretty poor actually. Must be one of those single malt jobs, but at least I know you’ve not been doctoring it.”
“Certainly not. Perish the thought Henry. Here, let me pour you another. Supposed to be good for the bowels these single malt whiskeys. Keep you nice and regular.”
Bob had a look of grave concern. “Not your bowels as well Henry. Bowels and a urinary problem. You poor thing.”
“I do not have a urinary problem!.”
Colin leant over to whisper quietly in Bills ear. “But he’ll have a problem elsewhere tomorrow.”
Outside it was dark and in the dimly lit car park a plaintive, desperate voice could be heard. Chris was still on the elevated platform. “Hello, can anybody hear me? I really would like to come down now. Wingco? Mister Soyoung? Vic? Henry? Somebody? Anybody? Help, please ….”
Somewhere nearby another sound could be heard. It was a groaning Soyoung kneeling on the grass in some distress. The sound was similar to that of a large animal that had been suffering in pain for some hours and was tired of the effort.
Back in the clubhouse Colin’s wife made an appearance rummaging behind the bar. Colin frowned at this disruption to his space. For the sake of matrimonial harmony they had divided the bar area into his and her sections. “What’s up dear?”
Sighing deeply with annoyance she cast accusing looks around the men at the bar, “Who has taken the cat’s medicine?”
“Cat’s medicine?”
“Yes the medicine I put a couple of drops in his milk to help him vomit up the hair balls.”
As if on cue a cat could be heard outside coughing loudly. Any outsider entering the bar at that moment would have been seriously and possibly scared at the looks that now crossed the faces of everyone present.
Jobe’s Grave
As dusk falls on warm summer evenings at Barndem it is possible to squeeze in a few holes of golf and marvel at the spectacular views of the setting sun. The peculiar layout of the course means that it is possible to complete the first nine holes quickly and finish near the club house. However, only the foolhardy and unsuspecting actually do complete nine holes. Most members only complete eight holes since no-one dare go near the seventh hole as night approaches.
In the daylight the seventh hole or Jobe’s Grave as it is known is a simple and unimposing par four. Beyond a small drainage ditch that runs across the fairway just beyond the average golfers driving range, the hazards are comparatively few. Just one small shallow bunker set to the right of the fairway strategically placed to capture the wayward drive. But despite its innocuous appearance, the seventh hole is notorious; it is haunted by the ghost of Jobe Long. During the day Jobe rests but as dusk falls his ghost begins to stalk the fairway and many a Barndem member has tales to tell of sightings and mysterious noises coming from the direction of the seventh fairway at night.
Jobe Long was one of the earliest bands of golfers to play at Barndem. Friend of the owner and founder of the course he spent many a long day perfecting his golf and even longer in cultivating his love of the opposite sex. Though unmarried Jobe had a great attraction for and to women and his exploits were a legend. It was this philandering that eventually got Jobe into serious trouble for one day he was caught in the bunker on the seventh fairway locked in an intimate embrace with the daughter of his best friend and owner of Barndem. Jobe would probably have been able to bribe his way out of trouble if it were not for the fact that he was discovered by a near relative of the founder. Though fierce attempts were made by the family to hush the incident it soon became public knowledge. Family honour was at stake and something had to be done.
Several days after this unfortunate incident, Jobe disappeared. The official story is that he was paid off and emigrated to America. Popular belief was that his body lay buried in the bunker on the seventh fairway; the very bunker in which he was caught in the act of his indiscretion. The shallowness of the bunker was cited as proof that beneath the sand lay the body of Jobe. For some weeks following Jobe’s disappearance, reports of screams as balls were played from the bunker had been common.
So deep was the belief that by general agreement any player unlucky enough to play into the bunker was allowed to remove the ball without penalty. The luckless player was also obliged to make a sizable donation to the charity church box by way of apology to Jobe’s ghost. Failure to do so would bring terrible consequences. Of course the simple answer would have been to excavate the bunker to prove the truth one way or the other. But such a move was considered offensive to the memory of the founder of Barndem.
Despite being fiscal beneficiaries of the superstition, there was an attempt some years back by the clergy to exorcise the ghost of Jobe. It was a privilege of the local church that the incumbent vicar was granted permission to play at Barndem. This traditional went back to the days when it was practice for one of the sons of a landed and wealthy family to enter the church. Chances were very high therefore that the vicar was related to some of the Barndem members.
Few vicars ever took up the option of actually playing but out of respect for tradition the current vicar would often be seen socialising at the club. One particular vicar, fed up with the heathen tales of ghosts decided to perform a public exorcism in an attempt to lay to rest the idea if not the spirit. Mysteriously he died in his bed the night before the ceremony was scheduled. The death certificate cited natural causes. Some wits cruelly claimed it was an act of God, but most knew from reports of the terrified expression on the vicars face that it was something else too horrible to contemplate.
Since then no vicar has dared mentioned the subject. At the time the request for exorcism was escalated to the bishop. But as well as being a profoundly religious man he was also very superstitious and found a series of excuses not to attend. Eventually the idea faded away and if the ghost of Jobe did indeed haunt the course, it was never laid to rest.
What is known about the fate of Jobe is that as dusk fell one summer evening and Jobe was finishing a round of golf he was set upon by a group of masked men and beaten senseless. When the green keeper discovered the barely breathing body of Jobe the following day he called the doctor. Jobe was taken away never to be seen again except in ghostly form.
Today a small stone lies by the side of the bunker simply inscribed Jobe Long, died 1888. No-one knows how it got there and of course no-one dared move it. Speculation was that the simple uncert
ain inscription had been carved with a style that was discernibly feminine.
3
Henry’s Money Box
Every golf club has one, sometimes several. The gaming machine is a vital source of revenue for the club, a source of amusement for the occasional punter, and a source of frustration for the serious gambler. Playing the machine is a continual loss punctuated only by the occasional elation when a big payout happens. Even this jubilation is short lived as it is an unwritten rule of Barndem that anyone on the receiving end of a large win must buy a round of drinks. Quite where the watershed is that defines a big win no-one was clear about but one thing is certain, the rule was financially embarrassing if the bar happened to be crowded at the time.
Henry had a love-hate relationship with the gaming machine. It loved taking his money and he hated losing it. So much of his meagre cash surplus was poured into the machine that he felt quite possessive towards the device. It had long since ceased to be a source of mild entertainment and had become instead an object of considerable antipathy.
Bill was apt to refer to the machine as Henry’s money box and woe betide anyone who had the good fortune to win while Henry was about. Some members claimed that they had felt the mental daggers pierce them as they extracted their winnings from the payout tray. One sensitive lady member went so far as to swear that the coins were too hot to pick up, that they were bewitched. In fact the machine had been placed too close to a radiator and the coin pods had heated but the benighted woman was not convinced and always studiously avoided playing the machine when Henry was in the bar. As this was most of the time her gambling habit effectively ceased.
Though it was not unknown for Bill to have an occasional gamble, Vic and Bob never indulged. Vic was cautious though not miserly with his money and Bob could not quite see the sense in the whole process. To him there was little to be gained from putting coins in a machine in the hope of getting them back. It was like a perverse form of Russian roulette with money. Better not to put them in in the first place. Henry did not quite see it like that. To Henry there was always the chance of getting money belonging to someone else. He had lost so much over the years that he felt the machine owed him and in true gamblers blind optimism believed that one day it would all come right.
Seated on bar stools at the clubhouse bar, Bob, Vic, and Bill were enjoying their usual tipple. Club steward Colin was in his usual position of forced attendance behind the bar and Henry was feeding coins into a gaming machine and muttering in his usual bad tempered way. The four men at the bar were watching Henry with increasing amusement. Colin was the first to speak. “How’s his spot of bowel trouble?”
Vic could not suppress a smile as he thought of the recent incident. “He’s alright now but he was in quite a state yesterday.”
“Serves him right; he was only supposed to take one drink not finish the whole bottle. Beats me why he didn’t notice anything odd about it. He drinks enough of the stuff.”
Bob awoke from what seemed to be a trance. “I thought that Scotch was rather nice; not very strong but an unusual taste.”
Vic shook his head. “For the last time Bob, it was not Scotch.”
“Oh, yes, so you said. Perhaps it was Irish whisky then.”
“No it was …… oh forget it!”
A loud oath was heard from across the room. Henry had run out of money and, kicking the machine in frustration turned to approach the bar. “Damn thieving machine.”
Bill was chuckling to himself. “Feeding your money box again Henry?”
“Don’t you start!”
“Funny how he can find money to waste on that machine yet when it comes to his turn to buy a round he never seems to have any money on him eh Vic?”
“One of life’s unsolved mysteries Bob.”
Henry waved an angry fist in the direction of the machine, “That’s because it’s all in that damn thieving machine.”
“I suppose the money jumped in there of its own accord did it?” Vic sarcastically inquired.
“Might just as well have. Certainly never jumps out again.”
“Have you ever thought about seeking help?”
Obviously misinterpreting Vic’s question, Henry looked interested “Help?”
“Yes, help for this gambling problem of yours. Gamblers Anonymous.”
“Very funny! You’ll catch the rough of my fist in a minute!”
“Violence won’t solve your problem.”
Bob placed a re-assuring hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I don’t believe what they say about you having a violent temper Henry.”
“Eh? Who said I’ve got a violent temper?”
Vic glared disarmingly at Bob. “No one; it was one of the new members. He mistook you for someone else. Some people don’t know when not to open their mouths. Its alright though, we put him straight.”
Henry shifted uneasily on his bar stool. A look of sly pleasure crossed Bill’s face. “Something wrong Henry?”
“My stomach’s still a bit quezy.”
“Perhaps you should have taken more water with Soyoung’s bottle of Scotch yesterday.”
“It tasted like coloured water anyway.”
“Funny you should say that eh Colin?”
Colin passed a finger over his lips. “My lips are sealed.”
Bob was frowning. “No they’re not. I saw them move.”
At that moment the attention of the men was attracted by one of Soyoung’s corporate Japanese members who had just entered the bar. In silence the men watched as the new arrival moved towards the gaming machine, inserted a coin and pressed the start button. After a pause the crashing of a number of coins could be heard. Removing the coins the man bowed in gratitude to the machine, approached the bar and ordered a Scotch offering the newly won coins as payment. Downing the Scotch with one gulp he bowed to the watching men and left. Henry was flabbergasted, turned a deep shade of red and appeared to be about to explode. “I don’t believe it. Did you see that? The damn - pfffff - bloody won my money. Can you believe it?”
Vic raised a steadying hand. “Calm down Henry. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. He won it fair and square. Besides which it wasn’t your money. You donated it to club funds.”
“Donated be buggered. I was robbed. He walks in here calm as mud and takes my money.”
Bill looked mischievous. “And drinks your Scotch.”
“And drinks my scotch, yes.”
“You don’t think you are perhaps taking this a little too personally Henry?” said Vic.
Bill nudged the half sleeping Bob. “Money and Scotch are personal to Henry, personal friends.”
“This is no laughing matter. How did he do it?”
Bill pulled the corners of his eyes to make them slanted. “Oriental magic Henry; perhaps you should ask him what secret is.”
Henry looked long and hard at the door through which the Japanese had exited. With a look of resolution on his face Henry stood unsteadily on his feet. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Hey, I was only joking.”
“Many a true word my boy, many a true word. See you in a minute.”
With that Henry departed leaving the others perplexed. Their silence was broken by Bob. “I saw an oriental magician once.”
Vic sensed that there was more to this simple statement but despite his better judgement decided to pursue it further. “Did you? Where?”
“In the Orient.”
“I should have guessed. Whereabouts in the Far East were you then?”
Bob shook his head slowly. “I’ve never been to the Far East.”
“But you just said you saw a magician in the Orient.”
“Yes, the old Orient theatre.”
“Bob, that was pulled down 20 years ago!”
“Was it? I thought I hadn’t seen it recently.”
“Hang on. Let’s start again. You once saw an oriental magician at the old Orient theatre right?”
“That’s what I said.”
Bi
ll was amused, “Can’t argue with that Vic.”
“No, I suppose I can’t argue with what I don’t understand.”
Colin tutted loudly, “That doesn’t normally stop Henry.”
Vic frowned. “It’s a bit unkind of you to malign the poor chap after what you did to him the other day.”
“He had it coming.”
Bob had not finished his story. “Actually he wasn’t really oriental, just made up to look oriental.”
“And I suppose he wasn’t really performing magic?”
“Yes he was. Sawing rabbits in half.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yes, I think it was rabbits.”
“You sure it wasn’t a person?”
“No, definitely a rabbit, it kept leaving droppings on the stage. Hundreds of little black pellets everywhere. I think it was frightened. I remember now. The magician asked for a volunteer and no one came forward. I found out later that his assistant who should have volunteered from the audience was so drunk he fell asleep and missed his cue.”
“So he cut a rabbit in half instead. I suppose he pulled it out of his hat?”
“Mmm, yes. It didn’t seem quite the same somehow. It was so small that it was difficult to see what was going on. The rabbit kept getting lost in the box. It was supposed to stick its legs out of the end but it kept trying to get out head first. All you could see was this little face and twitching whiskers.
Vic was determined to get a result from this conversation. “So let me see if I’ve got this correct. You saw a butcher chopping up rabbits on stage at the old Orient theatre, correct?”
“No, an accountant, he was an accountant by profession. Being an oriental magician was his hobby. Well, that and breeding rabbits.”
Colin was shaking his head in disbelief and smiling at Vic. “How do you put up with him?”
Vic took a deep breath. “It takes great patience.”
Bob still had not finished. “Mind you I always thought it was a strange thing to do.”