Writing for Fun
April 2016
Vengeance - Pete Norman
Vengeance It was the perfect night for a mission. The air was fresh and still; the moon was hiding behind a cloud layer thick enough that there was sufficient light to see but not sufficient to be seen. The man moved through the gloom like a wraith, his ginger hair covered by a black beret, his body by black fatigues and his face with a thin smear of dark mud.
Captain Hugh Baxter knew the route to the target well; he had studied it in minute detail; he had paced it out in his mind so many times that in the field he could move through it effortlessly, almost without thought. He passed under the oak tree, took four more paces and then reached out for the wall which he knew was just to his right, just beyond his reach.
He pressed himself against the cold, damp brickwork and held his breath. He strained his ears for the slightest sound, but apart from the soughing of the wind in the great oak and the faint murmur of vehicles in the far distance there was nothing. Reassured he reached into his pack. He slipped a tiny speaker bud into his left ear and then unwound a short length of thin wire. He held the uni-directional microphone just above the wall and concentrated once again. The only sound from within was the faint rustle of some rodent prowling the undergrowth close by; he could even hear the sound of his own heart beating, but he was certain that there were no tell-tale sounds coming from the target itself.
Inch by careful inch he raised his head until his eyes were just level with the top of the wall and he quickly scanned the scene for danger. His eyes had become accustomed to the low lux levels and he was confident that he was good to go. It all appeared to be ‘level 4’, so he was safe to breathe again, but before he could proceed further he required corroboration.
He raised the night scopes to his eyes and instantly the area lit up like daylight. Before him, no more than five metres away, a small pile of vegetation, a little more than a metre high, offered a little cover. Five metres beyond that was the target, roughly in the centre of the area. A large building lay beyond; it appeared quiet, a dim, light behind the curtains at the main window confirming that it was currently occupied, but the light itself was insufficient to illuminate the target, which to the naked eye was almost invisible.
He, took a firm hold on the brickwork with his hands, settled into his bent knees and then, with one powerful leap, dropped with his chest on the top of the wall, swung his legs across and landed silently on the soft soil beyond. Immediately he jogged across and threw himself to the ground behind his chosen cover. For five minutes he lay perfectly still, all of his senses alert, he had to be certain that nothing in his entry had disturbed the enemy; but there was no sign of movement, he was completely alone in the darkness . . . apart, that is, from that small rodent which was still prowling about very close by.
He advanced at a slow crawl towards the target, keeping his eyes constantly on the property for impending threat, but he covered the ground quickly and without incident. It was a glass structure, some four metres square and a little more than three metres high. The glass panes were soiled and misted, somewhat obscuring the view inside, but he knew it was in there - he had maintained observation from a distance for several days now and he knew that it was in there.
He eased himself up onto his knees and wiped a small area of glass with his hand. In the gloom it all appeared quite innocuous, a thin layer of camouflage concealed the target itself from view, but through the night scopes a dark shape loomed huge and threatening. As he observed it in close detail he felt a shudder sweep through him. His mission was to destroy the monstrosity, silently and utterly, and if that was all that was required then he might have been in and out again in seconds, but there was one more thing that was vital to the success of the mission - the secret compound - and that part would not be quite so easy. From his observations he was familiar with the enemy’s movements and he knew that if he was patient, its location would soon be revealed and the seizure of this vital substance would make all the difference; would render the mission a resounding success.
The target appeared to be full of all of the usual paraphernalia, nothing inside appeared suspicious in any way, but this was exactly as he had anticipated - in such covert operations the enemy would never risk compromising his situation by clumsy acts of carelessness. No, the secret compound must be carefully concealed. The man might think himself shrewd and cunning - a formidable adversary - but this time he would meet his nemesis; this time he would fail. All Baxter had to do now was to settle back and wait.
Twenty four minutes later a light came on at the rear of the property. He pressed himself to the ground behind his cover and waited. The sound of a door creaking open was accompanied by a sudden burst of light which illuminated the target with a soft glow, but seconds later the door closed and the area returned to darkness. Baxter had shut his eyes to minimise the interference so that his night vision lost none of its acuity. He listened carefully, nerves tensed to respond to any threat posed as the figure moved slowly up the path towards the target.
* * *
The Reverend Walter Winslow yawned as he walked, his slippered feet scarcely making a sound on the path, the pleasant feeling from a large Courvoisier slowly settling into his system. As he approached the greenhouse he took a furtive glance around as if he expected his garden to have been infiltrated, but everything appeared to be perfectly normal and infiltrator free. He shone a small torch on the padlock and spun the numbers on the dial to ‘197’ - Sybil’s birth date - the 19th of July. He opened the door and entered with the utmost reverence.
All around the walls, judiciously placed tomato plants shrouded the contents from prying eyes.
The target lay on a soft bed of straw at the far end of the greenhouse. It was huge and green and by the faint light of the torch beam olive streaks glowed along its sides. The Reverend first drew a small cloth from a bucket, he wrung it dry and then he ran the cloth with loving care across the hard green flesh again and again until it gleamed. He polished it dry and then caressed it gently with his fingertips, delighting in its perfection. Then he drew one of Sybil’s dressmaking tape measures from his jacket pocket which he slipped around its girth, marvelling at how much it had grown since his last visit.
* * *
Baxter was following every movement through his night scopes, but he was struggling to maintain the focus, because his hands were trembling with fury at the blatant hypocrisy - that a man of the cloth should be hell-bent on subverting the natural law of competition. For three years now the Reverend Winslow had taken the first prize in the Giant Vegetable category at the Barnborough Village Fair. Every year it had been the same; every year he had raised the cup above his head, a small blue rosette dangling from the handle, with a shy grin on his face. He had always given the outward appearance of a naïve man, embarrassed at his somewhat unexpected success, apologising profusely to the other competitors. However, Captain Baxter knew better - to him he was an incorrigible villain who could cheat with impunity in the certain knowledge that the judges would never once consider testing the monster for unlawful tampering as such a stalwart of the village would be deemed incapable of such shenanigans.
Inside the greenhouse the man’s lips were moving; it would otherwise have been impossible for the Captain to hear his mumbled words, but the uni-directional microphone was focussed on the target. He could not hear every word, but the words he could hear filled him with loathing.
‘My darling. You are my inspiration, my life, my reason to live. Without you I would be nothing.’
Baxter cringed. The idiot was obsessed; he was in love with a marrow. He was beyond help. Perhaps the destruction of the thing would bring him back to some semblance of reality. However, he was more concerned about how much more of this sentimental mush he would have to endure before the man would finally reveal where he hid the secret of his success, the illegal substance he was feeding to the monster. Once he had secured that knowledge this year’s show would be certain to have a completely different outcome.
We make such a wonderful team, my darling. I have been faithful to your dream just as I promised you. Together we will sweep all before us with this magnificence.’
‘Like hell you will! Dream on, you bastard!’ Baxter muttered before mentally chastising himself for his angry outburst - he must maintain his control or risk all by revealing his presence; breaking his cover. His chief reason for being here was to discover the secret. All he needed was the magic ingredient which he could then feed to his own precious plant.
Of course, he considered himself a fair man and he would not think of leaving the vicar with nothing, oh, no . . . heaven forbid! In his backpack was a large syringe and a bottle of concentrated growth hormone. Once he had discharged its contents into the fat end it would take no time at all for the dramatically disproportionate growth to make the marrow explode - to send the monstrosity to Kingdom come - fitting vengeance against the unholy villain.
The reverend reached down and picked up a small wooden box. He prised open the lid and peered inside.
‘Nearly gone, my darling. Gone forever. This will have to be our last, I’m afraid; the doctor has told me that I most likely will not see another Village Fair, but, praise the Lord, then we shall be together again. Perhaps GI Joe might even win the prize next year - God knows he deserves it, for without your help we would most certainly have been beaten.’
He tipped the box and a fine powder poured out over the marrow’s roots. He tapped the box with his finger to ensure it was completely empty and then he raised his hands in silent prayer.
Captain Baxter followed the bizarre ritual with mixed emotions - the box quite obviously contained the secret ingredient - but as the reverend held it up he could clearly read what was written upon it in large gold letters: ‘Sybil Winslow. 1938-2014’ . . . and there was a cross!
As he watched the reverend trudging slowly back to his house his mind polarised with military determination. He would redouble his efforts and he would lift the prize - oh yes, he would lift it . . . he was determined to produce the second biggest marrow in the Fair.