Murder on the Golf Course Part 7

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Murder on the Golf Course Part 7

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Henry Higgin’s attempts to murder his wife on the golf course aren’t proceeding very well. He’s spent weeks trying to hit her with a golf ball or drown her in the water hazard but nothing works. But if at first, you don’t succeed…

Now read on.

For the summer holidays, it was the Higgins’ practice to drive north and spend a week playing a beautiful and extremely rugged course in Scotland. In the past, Higgins had been attracted to the course because of its wild nature, its tranquillity, its bracing air and fabulous views.

This year he was particularly attracted to the third hole. The reason for this was that the fairway bordered a steep, deep and exceedingly dangerous cliff. It was over this same cliff that Mr Higgins now proposed to propel Mrs Higgins.

It was a beautiful Scottish summer’s day. The first two holes proceeded uneventfully, (though a keen eye may have detected a certain impatience on the part of Mr Higgins) and they arrived shortly at the third tee. The Higginses teed off. To their right white stakes bordered the fairway.

 EXTREMELY DANGEROUS! STAY AWAY FROM CLIFF EDGE read the large warning signs. Henry Higgins strolled to the edge. A solitary spindly tree jutted out from the cliff face twenty feet below. Far, far below the precipice fell into the violently heaving sea.

“Come and look at this view, Alice,” called Henry Higgins. “Absolutely splendid,” he yelled, rubbing his hands together in glee.

Mrs Higgins halted dubiously by the stakes. “Aren’t you a bit close to the edge, Henry?” she asked.

“Nonsense dear, it’s perfectly safe,” said Higgins. “Come on, don’t stand over there, come and look at the view.”

Slowly and nervously Alice Higgins approached.

“Nothing to be afraid of, safe as houses!” boomed Higgins and stomped his right foot heavily to emphasise his point. With this, a large chunk of the cliff face gave way and poor Henry Higgins, with a great shout of anguish hurtled into space.

In one way he was lucky in that he landed astride the tree which jutted out from the cliff face. In another way, he was not. With the unexpected suddenness that categorises Scottish weather the sun went in, the wind sprung up and nasty cold wet Scottish rain fell in buckets. It took the mountain rescue team three hours to prise Higgins out of his tree and it is doubtful if there was a sorrier spectacle in the whole of Scotland than a shivering, drowned, bruised and broken-spirited Henry Higgins gingerly cradling his private parts (which had hit the tree first) as they carried him off to hospital. Mercifully he was not badly hurt. Should be out of hospital in a week they said.

The weather took a miraculous turn for the better which meant that Mrs Higgins could comfort her husband in the mornings and still get 18 holes in each afternoon in the company of a young handsome chap from the mountain rescue team who just happened to be a keen golfer.

Each morning she would describe to Henry as he lay in his hospital bed all the details of the super round of golf she had enjoyed the afternoon before.

This made him feel much better.

As he recovered from his ordeal Henry Higgins pondered the seemingly insuperable problem of how he could rid himself of the woman whose golf game was driving him over the edge of sanity. He contemplated ever more fanciful means of disposal.

He could hide deadly poisonous snakes in the rough. Rats, he thought, she hardly ever goes into the rough. What about sharpening one of the flags and pinning her to the green with it, blaming a sudden gust of wind? Stab her to death with a poisoned golf umbrella? Drive over her 10 times in a golf cart? It was no good. Nothing worked.

So it was that on his release from hospital, walking extremely carefully in order not to further damage his private parts, Henry Higgins limped back to his quiet, suburban household, a bitter and broken man.

Apathetically he slumped in his armchair staring without interest at the Golf Channel; listlessly he thumbed his way through his copies of Big Swingers Monthly. His clubs sat forlorn in the garage; his balls, his tees, his Wonderfoot golf shoes lay unused and unloved in a cupboard. He looked at the print of St Andrew’s clubhouse on the wall and realized that it was an ugly, odious, edifice, obviously designed by an idiot, built by a gang of passing morons and lacking any of the grace and charm of normal clubhouses.

Golf, he thought despondently. What kind of a game is that?


Trevor Hughes teeing off in New Delhi

One of Happy Ali’s most prolific writers, Trevor Hughes is an award-winning author of six novels and a book of short stories: Tales from Far Places.

He has lived and worked in Bangladesh, India, Thailand, Singapore, and now Hong Kong. He has travelled extensively but, in his more settled moments can often be found enjoying a round or two of golf: nowhere more so than at the 19th hole.

Murder on the Golf Course is written and serialized exclusively for Happy Ali.

For more information see: www.trevorhughes-writer.com

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