The Roar of the Butterflies. Reginald Hill

a good thing to have with a baked potato, thought Joe.

      ‘Davie what?’ he asked.

      ‘Well, Davie actually. David Davie. Never sure whether it’s his first or second name I’m using. Still, doesn’t seem to trouble him.’

      ‘And is he any part of your trouble?’ asked Joe, keen to get down to cases.

      ‘On no. Not at all. Definitely not.’

      As if provoked by the question, Porphyry now strode forward at a pace which in Joe’s case came close to a trot. It was very hot and though there were plenty of trees to their right, unfortunately the sun was in the wrong quarter of the sky to afford them any shade.

      Suddenly Porphyry came to a halt.

      ‘Stand still, Joe,’ he commanded.

      Though only too pleased to obey, Joe’s natural curiosity still made him gasp, ‘What for?’

      ‘Chaps on the tee. Best be careful.’

      Joe followed the YFG’s gaze back down the fairway. Some figures had appeared at a distance so great he had to screw up his eyes to work out there were four of them.

      ‘You think those guys could reach us here?’ he asked doubtingly.

      ‘Probably not, but what I meant was, we don’t want to disturb their concentration by movement. And best keep your voice down too.’

      ‘My voice? You’re joking, yeah? I’d need a bullhorn before they could hear me!’

      Porphyry smiled and said, or rather whispered, ‘Normally, yes, Joe. But golf sensitizes the hearing remarkably. You know the great Wodehouse, of course?’

      ‘Woodhouse? Played for the Posh and Grimsby then went into the fight game?’ hazarded Joe.

      ‘Don’t recollect that, though he was a man of great and varied talent. In particular he loved his golf and of course he wrote some of the funniest books in the language. In one of them he talks about a golfer so sensitive, he could be put off his stroke by the roaring of butterflies in the adjacent meadow.’

      The YFG chuckled as he spoke, but more as if appreciating a point well made than simply laughing at a bit of daftness. Joe was getting the impression that, apart from being stellar rich, you also needed a sense of humour from outer space to qualify for the Hoo. What was it the Bermuda Triangle had found so funny? Oh yes, the notion of him giving them something called gotchas.

      Reckoning he wasn’t going to get much further with roaring butterflies, he asked, ‘What’s a gotcha?’

      ‘In golf, you mean?’

      ‘Yeah. In golf.’

      ‘Well, it has no official standing, you understand? Though I have known occasions when some of the chaps have had a couple too many before a game and have actually put it into practice.’

      Did this guy know how to give a straight answer?

      ‘But what is it?’ demanded Joe.

      ‘It means if, say, you agreed to have three gotchas each at the start of the game, on three occasions as your opponent was playing his shot you would be entitled to reach between his legs from behind, seize his testicles and cry Gotcha! I think we can move on now, Joe.’

      It seemed a good idea, and the further the better.

      Not that any of the golfers’ drives had come within fifty yards of them, but that didn’t make Joe feel any safer. OK, in his game of choice, football, you could get a smack in the goolies, but if the ref noticed, then it was a red-card job for the offender. But here in crazy Hoo-land, they built it into the rules!

      It was time for some straight talking. The two hundred in his back pocket no longer seemed an issue. In fact it felt earned out already.

      He put on a sprint and caught up with the YFG.

      ‘Mr Porphyry…’ he gasped.

      ‘Chris.’

      Joe took a deep breath. It felt like it might be his last but he wanted to be sure he got out everything he wanted to say in a form which even a Young Fair God could not misunderstand.

      ‘Chris. In case you haven’t noticed, Chris, it’s so hot that I’d jump in a pond full of alligators if one happened to be handy. I’m out of breath, and there’s a bunch of guys behind us drilling little white balls through the air at a hundred miles an hour. And even if they ain’t disturbed by the rumpus all them butterflies is kicking up, I guess any control over direction they’ve got won’t hold up much if someone grabs their family jewels just as they’re making their shot. So unless what you want to hire me for is to guess what you want to hire me for, I’d appreciate it if you could get to the point and tell me just what it is you want to hire me for!’

      That made things clear, he reckoned. In fact, he doubted if he could have made things clearer without adding semaphore.

      ‘Point taken, Joe,’ said Porphyry. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose there are some things a chap just doesn’t like to talk about.’

      This took what little remained of Joe’s breath away. The guy really didn’t want to tell him what he wanted to hire him for!

      He said, ‘Look, I’ve worked on all kinds of cases, stuff you wouldn’t imagine. And, long as it don’t involve interfering with kids or farm animals, I’m cool, OK?’

      ‘Yes, I see. Well, it’s nothing like that, thank God, but it’s bad. Really bad.’ He took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘The thing is, I’ve been accused of cheating.’

      ‘Cheating?’ echoed Joe. ‘You mean like cheating on Miss Emerson, your fiancée?’

      ‘No! Worse than that. Cheating at golf.’

      ‘At golf? During a game, you mean?’ Joe liked to get things absolutely straight, especially when dealing with an alien being. ‘You’ve been accused of cheating at a game of golf?’

      ‘That’s it. Yes. Ghastly, isn’t it? A really filthy thing to have laid on you. Filthy.’

      His expression turned haunted and gloomy. It was like the sun going down, though, oddly, distress didn’t age his features. On the contrary, he looked even younger, a young fair child now rather than a young fair god.

      Joe felt his own spirits sink in sympathy. It hurt him to see the young man so unhappy, even though for the life of him he couldn’t work out the cause of such unhappiness. Yeah, cheating in sport was bad, but this day and age, it was part of the game. Guy you were marking tried to give you the slip, you pulled his shirt. He got by you and posed a real danger to your goal, you took his legs out. You got tackled in your opponents’ penalty area, you went down hard, holding your knee and screaming. OK, if the ref was a drama critic, he might award a free kick against you, maybe even give you a yellow card, in the very worst cases a red. But it was all in a day’s work, no one thought any the worse of you for it, whether you were playing five-aside in the park or earning a hundred grand a week in the Premiership. In fact, if you got a reputation in the pro game, it could be a nice little earner after you’d left the game with articles on My Fifty Favourite Fouls or How to Be a Hard Man. You might even do a movie or get a TV show.

      So how was golf different?

      He said, ‘How serious is this?’

      Porphyry said, ‘If proven, I could be chucked out of the club.’

      ‘Must be lots of other clubs,’ said Joe consolingly.

      ‘Not if you’ve been chucked out of the Hoo,’ said Porphyry.

      Joe doubted if it would make much difference down at the Municipal Pitch’n’Putt, but was sensitive enough to see this might be only a limited consolation.

      ‘So what kind of case can they put together?’