“I see.” George replied. “And obviously you want me to deal with him.”
“Of course. This will be easy. Today is Sunday. After the service and the congregation have left, he likes to have the place to himself and sit alone in his office at the back of the chapel. He enjoys a few glasses of the finest cognac as he sits, adding up his accounts on the internet. He will be all alone from three in the afternoon for about an hour before he leaves to get his flight to Dublin. Simply knock on the office door and go in. Take your trusty hammer and save these poor people a fortune.“ The newscaster said. “Three pm George. Don’t be late.”
George wasn’t late. At five minutes to three he was walking up the drive of the church to the large front door. It was a double door and one half had been left open. George glanced around the churchyard. It was quiet. He hadn’t been here for maybe ten years when he had attended the funeral of a work colleague who had suffered a heart attack while writing out a parking ticket. Died doing what he loved George always thought. A trooper to the end.
George made his way into the large alcove at the entrance to the church. He noticed the charity collection box on a table near the door and wondered how much of the donations ever went to where they were intended. He moved in through the wide, solid doors and was soon within the church itself. High above him he noted the large arched beams carrying the vaulted roof, supported on stone pillars and decorated in detailed gold leaf.
Moving down the aisle of the church he saw the small door at the rear of the ornate alter. He continued towards it sliding his hand into his overcoat pocket. He smiled as he felt the comforting solidity of the hammer shaft in his hand. As he reached for the handle of the door to the priest’s office it sprang open and the priest stood before him. Father Spencer was in a hurry and almost ran straight into George as he emerged. The father shuffled to one side and the pair of them began a gentleman’s excuse me as they both shifted from foot to foot.
George was drawing the hammer from his pocket as the priest pushed him firmly to one side and stepped past him into the aisle.
“Terribly sorry my son but I am in something of a hurry. Got a plane to catch you know? My secretary should be here shortly if you’d like to leave a message. Very sorry, must dash.” Father Spencer blurted out moving away from George and not really noticing the hammer in George’s hand.
Confused, George took a large swing with the hammer, at the back of the exiting priest, but Father Spencer was already three paces ahead and not looking back. He had a large suitcase in one hand and was clutching a handful of papers in the other. His flight tickets and passport George guessed as he hurried after the priest to the main door.
George was not in the best of condition for a drawn out chase but continued his pursuit as they emerged into the church yard and the drive to the main road. The priest turned for a moment and saw George a short distance behind him, scowling, breathing heavy and with the hammer high in the air. A bout of panic and realization hit Father Spencer as he crashed into the gate. His spectacles flew off his head and he spun almost 360 degrees into the road now almost blind without his glasses. So blind he could no longer see George gaining ground on him. Nor could he see the taxi he stepped in front of as the driver slammed on the brakes and steered to avoid him.
The taxi of course was the one that would be picking up the good Father to take him to the airport. As the priest spiraled high into the air before crashing down onto the finely polished front of the taxi, his last thoughts as his head hit the windscreen was how the driver was always punctual. His body sprawled and twitched for some minutes before coming to a restful stop. His head almost severed as it gazed at the terrified taxi driver.
George stood in silence and shock at the spectacle before him. He slid the hammer quietly into his pocket and tried to control his breathing. He stepped over the suitcase the priest had dropped and slowly made his way down the road home. The sirens were already wailing past him as he strolled past his once a week diner. No time for celebrating with a burger today he thought. Time to get home and get the old tired feet up. Running wasn’t his thing at all. Father Spencer had been tall, fit, and good looking, but almost blind without his glasses. Such was the cruelty of nature and the benefit of George. He arrived home and set himself down in his chair. He clicked on the television to be greeted by the newscaster. The newscaster was smiling.
“Another fine success George. You look tired. Treat yourself to a long hot soak today. I think you’ve earned it.” The newscaster said.
“Yes, I believe I have. A job well done though, if I do say so myself.” George replied.
“So explain to me how this all works. Who exactly are you that you have all this information on the bad guys? I don’t think even MI5 are that clever, to know people so well?”
“We are known as the Legion George. We know everything about everyone. You are becoming something of a celebrity with us. Your success is echoing far and wide these last few days.” The news reporter said. “You may of course call me Legion. As I represent the many.”
“Hmm, Legion. That name rings a bell. I’m not the religious type as you know but I’m sure that name has come up somewhere.” George replied.
“You are wise not to be taken in by the dogmas of others George. Now don’t worry over it. Tomorrow is another day and another task. This one is very important. I think you will enjoy it. Now take that soak in the bath. We will talk soon.”
Monday morning saw George leap out of bed and rush to the kitchen to prepare himself a breakfast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually bounced out of bed feeling so pain-free and energized. But he was starving. Breakfast usually didn’t get entertained until well after midday. That would be when the aches and pains would ease and George would begin to feel the hunger pangs overriding the stomach ulcers.
This morning he felt an omelet was in order. A big one. Four eggs, tomato, cheese and some diced up Spam he’d found in the cupboard. A large dollop of mayonnaise stirred in and he felt this was worthy of a TV show of its own.
“Good morning George! Glad to see you slept well. You seem to have worked up an appetite.” Legion said from the TV.
“Yes I feel wonderful, thank you. Do excuse me while I eat. Oh and good morning to you too Legion.” George replied.
“Today, we take out a scourge of the people. A parasite. A politician. There are few parasites worse than a politician George as we saw with our Lady Mayoress. Give these people a bit of power and their greed becomes endless.” Legion said.
“I totally agree.” George replied. “I’ve never been too interested in politics. They all sound like lying criminals to me. They say all the right things to get elected then screw us every chance they get.”
“The same the whole world over George. They despise the poor for needing assistance as they feed off as much assistance as they can scrounge on their 'Allowances'. They are the lowest of all humanity.”
“So who is this one?” George asked through mouthfuls of omelet.
“Our target today is Sir Humphrey Pendlington-Smythe. He and his family before him have been feeding off the taxpayers' teat for four hundred years. A family business of politics and greed. But it seems his table can never be full enough with just the money he steals from the public as a politician. He is paid by companies to push through planning applications. Applications that would be rejected out of hand ordinarily. Plans for fracking rights, building rights and gobbling up green land rights. This man will and has signed them all if the price is right. But only this week he agreed to cut spending on the disabled. Wasteful scroungers we can’t afford, he believes. He has to go George. He has to go today.” Legion growled through the TV set.
“I completely agree. The man sounds an utter bastard. I knew they would be targeting my money again. I can barely eat as it is. How do we get at this scumbag?” George asked angrily.
“Golf, George. He likes to play golf. Alone.” Legion replied. “Monday afternoons, he takes himse
lf up to the Hardacre golf club for a round on his own. He never plays with other people. No point. He couldn’t hit a barn door with a frying pan. But he loves to boast his skills and writes himself up a wonderful score on the card when he returns to the clubhouse. So despicable he even lies about playing a game. At midday he will be teeing off from the eleventh hole. It is a quiet, secluded fairway there. Perfect for the job in hand. Some bad weather on its way so I suggest you take an umbrella George. We don’t want you catching a chill.” Legion said.
George was smiling as he finished his breakfast and got dressed for a day of killing. He dug in the broom closet for his old umbrella and gave it a flick to test whether it still opened. It popped itself open with a flourish. George was pleased to see it still in good working order. He hadn’t used it in years. Since his attack he would never bother to leave the house if it was raining. But that was then. This was now.
He set off for a long stroll to the golf course. He would avoid the main entrance to the club of course and follow the quiet country lane that led around the perimeter of the grounds. He knew the area very well. This had all been open, common land when he was a kid. Up here he would come with a gang of friends to play cowboys and Indians. Build dens and if they were allowed a camping night, tell ghost stories around a campfire. The land had quite miraculously been sold to a rich developer. This of course caused an outcry from the people that were used to their rights on the common, but they were sold the usual stories. The land was unsafe for children due to old mine works and the city needed the revenue. It had been sold and that was that.
George scowled as he remembered back to the happier times he’d spent here on the old common. Legion was right of course. This was one of the bastards that had taken it away. Passing a sign for the golf course perimeter he made his way towards the eleventh hole. Or at least where he thought it might be. It was the tenth.
George scanned around and found the marker and arrow that directed golfers to the next tee. There was no sign of his target so he ambled casually along until he found the eleventh. There he set himself under the canopy of a large sycamore tree and waited. Clouds were forming high above. From over the hills he could see big black cumulus clouds moving in and was sure he heard a gentle rumble of thunder in the distance. Legion had been right again. This would certainly be a day for an umbrella.
It had become incredibly warm sat under the tree and George was happy to feel a breeze beginning to blow and the occasional drops of rain. A storm was certainly on the way. George was no weather forecaster but even he knew the smell of a storm approaching.
Sir Humphrey came into view heading towards the tenth hole. George saw him blindly thrashing in the undergrowth a hundred yards from the pin. He could see him reaching into his bag and throwing a new ball onto the fairway. Not just replacing the ball, Sir Humphrey heaved it as far as he could towards the green. It rolled gently to a stop, perfectly placed for a short hit home. George snickered as he watched the man cheating himself.
After another four ungainly swings Sir Humphrey had potted the ball and was working his way to the eleventh tee as he wrote down what George assumed was a birdie on his card. George made his way round the back of the tree to observe without being seen. The rain had increased and the thunder was now quite noticeable and close.
Sir Humphrey set himself up on the eleventh tee to prepare for his drive shot. He fumbled around in his shirt pocket and triumphantly produced a large cigar which he proceeded to light.
“Celebrating his wonderful last hole no doubt.” George snickered as he advanced from his hiding place towards the politician.
Sir Humphrey had withdrawn his driver from the bag and was taking a few practice swings as George edged his way up from behind. George had pulled the hammer from his pocket and was just in range as Sir Humphrey turned.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” He yelled. “This is a bloody private club my man. Clear the hell off!”
It was at that instant he noted the raised hammer in George’s hand. Sir Humphrey staggered backwards from the obvious assault and the cigar dropped from his mouth to the ground. He spluttered as he raised the heavy ended driver to defend himself.
George was taken aback by the fact that the man was not only armed with a rather heavy club but that at the moment he seemed to have the upper hand. Sir Humphrey was tall. Much taller than George and with an upbringing of private schools and rugby playing universities, was significantly fitter even for a man in his late sixties.
High above them the thunder began a constant rumble and the rain was now beginning to thrash the pair of them. Sir Humphrey was yelling at George as they stood squared off at each other. George couldn’t hear a thing through the roaring thunder.
Sir Humphrey moved towards him with his club held high above his head ready to smash it down on a now confused George. The bolt of lightning that captured the golf club sped straight down into the earth. All the way through the hands of Sir Humphrey and exiting somewhere at his feet.
George was knocked off his own feet by the power of the blast and from his now sprawling position on the ground he looked up to see Sir Humphrey still standing. The club in his hand still pointing to the sky. He held that pose for what seemed like an age to George as the lightning continued and silhouetted the politician on the skyline. Then he fell. He fell, deflated and dead to the ground. His head resting just inches from the cigar he had dropped earlier.
George grimaced as he dragged himself upright from the floor. He stood up and looked over the now lifeless body and grinned.
“Hole in one Sir?” he giggled as he made his way back to the tree and his umbrella. The rain was beginning to ease as quickly as it had started and the storm itself was now some miles away. George flipped the umbrella open and sauntered off the golf course and back to the lane he had arrived on.
The body of Sir Humphrey Pendlington-Smythe would not be found until later in the afternoon by a group of golfers sensible enough to wait out the weather. Nobody at the club was in any rush to see him back, boasting about his incredible round of golf and certainly nobody would be out looking for him if he arrived late. George of course would be saving the clippings from the newspaper the next day.
Arriving home George set the umbrella back in the closet and settled himself in his chair.
“A job well done George. The world just became a cleaner place don’t you think?” Legion said from the TV screen. “Tonight we deal with an altogether different monster. For now, enjoy a nap. You’ve earned it.”
Chapter Four
“Time to wake up George. We have much to do.” Legion hissed from the TV set.
George had passed out, slumped in his chair in front of the screen. He woke with a start.
“What? Where? What’s wrong?” George mumbled as he roused himself awake.
“It’s time to go to work my friend. This one will test all your skills tonight. This will show us you are truly one of us. One of a kind.” Legion said.
“Really? So soon? How do you mean one of you? Do I get a badge or something?” George asked.
A picture came up on the screen of a beautiful woman. Mid-thirties with long dark hair, George instantly assumed she was either an actress or a model. Not for a moment did he think she was a bent politician or a lesser criminal.
“This is Janise Saunders. She is meeting an old man tonight and will be relieving him of several hundred pounds. She is the lowest of the low George. A woman that uses her beauty to get what she wants. And she gets it. A more cruel and callous bitch you could never imagine.” Legion said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You’re telling me that a prostitute is a bigger criminal than the ones we’ve already encountered? That makes no sense. If men want to give money to a woman for a good time I don’t see any crime in that. Looking at her I wouldn’t mind a go myself.” George said somewhat startled by his own admission.
“You are fooled George. Fooled by her beauty. Look again. Look into those evil e
yes of hers. The man she will be meeting tonight is dying. He has but a few weeks to live. She knows that and is fleecing him for his last bit of money before he goes. Robbing a dying man who could be finding treatment perhaps or at least a last holiday. What sort of woman would steal from a dying man, knowing these were his last days on earth?” Legion snarled.
“Yes. Yes I agree. That is pretty bloody evil. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I was just taken in by her beauty for a moment. So how do I go about it?” George replied.
“The old man will arrive at eight tonight. After he leaves, she always takes a shower. The key the old man uses to get in is under the garden gnome on the front steps. Once he is gone the stage is all yours George. Don’t let us down. You are playing for the big prize tonight. A lot is at stake.”
“Big prize? What big prize?” George asked.
“You will be one of us George. You will get to sit at the big table and help guide others as I have guided you. This is it George, the big one. Go and prepare, don’t let us down tonight.” Legion replied.
George, dressed in his overcoat with hammer in pocket, found himself a place across from the woman’s house to observe. The house was a small semi, previously an old council house George assumed. The garden was run down and full of children’s toys. Dotted around the small walled garden were garden gnomes in various states of repair. The one supposed to be fishing had the stance and the eager expression of a gnome catching a huge fish. But the fishing rod he was supposed to be holding had long gone. The one with the blue hat, digging for treasure in the garden was having to manage without a shovel, George noted. Then at the side of the house on the step to the back door, George noted the red hatted gnome under which was hidden the door key.
Thriller: Horror: Conceived (Mystery Suspense Thrillers) (Haunted Paranormal Short Story) Page 12
