A Country Fly, A Novel by GJ Kelly

Everything was going horribly wrong. All his meticulous plans to avenge the deaths of his mother and father. Everything. The whole point, the whole point, he thought, of coming here. After everything that's happened. The whole point was to expose the filth and the slime and hold it up for all to see before wiping it from the face of the earth. And it was all going wrong! Smash! and Mrs Ashbury lay dead on the kitchen floor. Smash! and Amanda was there, softening his armour and weakening his resolve. Smash! Thrutton the blackmailer threatening to inform. Smash! and the brilliant scheme to remove him ruined by a stranger in an unknown car. Smash! Angela Morton seeing his car near the scene when nobody, nobody, should have been within miles of the place. Smash! And she knew who the other driver was, and wouldn't tell him unless he satisfied her lust! From time to bloody time!

"It's bad news I'm afraid. The Colonel. He's dead."
"Christ!" exclaimed Crombley.
"Oh, Clive! How? I can't believe it!"
"Heart failure, the doctor said. We were just having a drink, and the old boy just had a coughing fit and, well, just died. Just like that."
"Clive, how awful! Oh I'm so sorry." she reached out her hand and let it rest lightly on Clive's wrist. Crombley shook his head, and moved off up the bar.
"The doctor said it wasn't unexpected. Apparently he's amazed the old chap lasted as long as he did. Turns out he really should have given up smoking years ago. It's not as if I knew the poor old boy, just a bit of a shock, you know, talking to him one minute and then he's gone." He looked up, deep into her eyes. They were wide with sympathy, genuine sympathy for both Risbury and the dead old man. Crombley had opened the flap in the bar and walked around to where Clive sat. Wordlessly, the landlord bent, and picked up the Colonel's stool. He carried it to the opposite end of the bar and placed it beside the fruit machine. Risbury looked back at Amanda, who smiled and squeezed his hand again.
   "No one would ever sit on it anyway," said Crombley as he stepped back behind the bar, "none of the regulars, anyway. Seems best."
   "Yes," agreed Clive, still looking deep into Amanda's eyes. He looked up at Crombley "I think I'd like us all to have a drink. Last toast, sort of thing, wish the poor old chap on his way?"
Crombley nodded solemnly and poured himself a brandy. Amanda squeezed Clive's hand again.
"I'll have a small white wine. I have to drive home..."
   Clive nodded as she moved off up the bar, under the gleaming light again. Shimmering. Crombley stood by the optics, looking into his glass, perhaps remembering the old Colonel. He had been a regular for longer than Crombley had held the license. Clive's attention was distracted by a large, bloated fly that had settled onto the polished wood of the bar near his packet of cigarettes. The fly was huge, obscene, and he would swear one of its legs was missing. As its sucker-mouth probed at a crumb Clive felt a shiver of disgust run down his spine. He had never seen such a big fly, not in this country. With a bang like a pistol-shot he slammed his hand down on the bar, bursting the loathsome insect.
Crombley was startled out of his reverie. Amanda, who had seen what had happened, picked up a dishcloth from under the bar and walked towards Risbury. She saw the disgusted look on his face and handed him the dishcloth.
   "It's a country fly, Clive. They're bigger out here, better fed I suppose." She smiled weakly.
   "And they make a bigger mess when you squash them." said Clive, wiping the gore from his hand.
   "Here's to the Colonel, then, may he rest in peace." said Crombley.
"The Colonel." echoed Amanda and Risbury.