Bohemia Village Voice

Bullseye – a Story of Revenge

It had been a wonderful August so far. The sky was as blue as a postcard’s with no cloud in sight. Two young rooks flapped their wings as they flew across it and landed on a young birch tree.
“Let us take our claret outside old chap. It’s such a cracking good day,” suggested Lord Fontesque to his visitor.
“Spiffing idea, Fontie!” responded Farquehar.
“Jolly good shoot, what?”
“You must have bagged a hundred old boy! I was watching you out of the corner of my little eye and you never stopped banging at the blighters!” Farquehar adjusted his monocle and took another sip of the claret; a great year this one, as ever. He could be sure of a good vintage and plenty of food at Fontesque’s place every year.
Lord Fontesque sat back on his wicker seat to shade his balding head under the tree.
“Another scorcher! Warmer than Monte this yaar” was his only response to such praise, as he seemed somewhat distracted.
“Really, old bean?”
“Oh, definitely. Lorst a fair bit at the tables of course. But one expects to. Why else go, what?”
Farquehar decided it would be best to move the conversation on. He had heard some nasty rumours about Fontie’s true financial state of late.
“That Daphne Purbright – what a stunner!”
“Ole Daffers? Known the gal for yars. Her Mama was a stunner too! Died young though,” he shook his head dismissively.
“Really? Rotten luck, that. To lose one’s Mama too soon.”
“Yers. Wong blood. One needs good stock.” He sighed heavily and continued.” Still, mustn’t gwumble. There’s also Bearwill.”
“Beryl Stansford? The Duke’s niece?”
Fontesque fidgeted in his seat.
“A strong filly that. You could bank on her.”
“Quite.”
There was a long silence until Lord Fontesque broke it with the comment, “Got rid of plenty of those bally wooks! Devils, they are, for thievin’. Hopin’ for a good yield from the farmers this yar. Last yar’s was a shoddy business. All down to them demned wooks! I told Jenkins to get his gun out early in the season. Wetched chap took no notice. So had to sort out the blighters meself!”
He sat back, carefree and relaxed now, stretching out his long legs, and chuckled cheerfully at the memory. His half glass of claret shimmered, reflecting the sunlight as his hand shook a little from yet more alcohol.
Rook number one moved across the branch to make way for her partner.
Rook number two turned his body 90 degrees and lifted his tail.
BULLSEYE!