Skinner stood on the tee of the 230-yard par-three twelfth, not far from the clubhouse, and looked in astonishment as Darren Atkinson hit an immaculate three-iron, cutting upwards through the rain and feathering down on to the green, no more than six feet from the hole.
The US Open Champion was one under par for his round, thanks to a birdie at the par-five seventh. Skinner himself was scrambling to play to his seven handicap, while Norton Wales and Hideo Murano were splashing their way around the course as best they could, every shot being applauded sympathetically, by a crowd which was smaller than on the opening day, but which still ran into the thousands.
`Shot, skipper,' said the policeman in admiration, as the gallery gasped its approval. He emerged from under Joe's protective cover to hit a five-wood, high and wide of the green.
Shaking his head, he retreated beneath the umbrella, as Murano stepped up to play. As he watched the Japanese ready himself, a hand tugged his sleeve. He looked down to see a small boy, clad in waterproofs from top to toe, proffering a squeezable plastic bottle of the official soft drink supplier's newest isotonic product. He put a hand on the child's shoulder, stilling him until Murano had played, then took the drink with a smile and a soft 'Thank you', imagining his own son, seven or eight years on.
A few seconds later the child returned, and handed a drink to Bravo. Then a moment later he stepped up for a third time, holding out a drink, and an autograph book, to Darren Atkinson.
The golfer took the bottle from him solemnly, unzipped his golfbag and slipped it into the big container pocket. He reached out his hand to Bravo. `Gimme yours too mate,' he said, 'we'll be on the move in a second.' The caddy handed over his drink. Atkinson stowed it in the bag, then squatted down to sign the autograph book. 'No school today?' he asked. The boy flushed and looked guilty. It struck Skinner that even during competition, when he was at his most intense, Atkinson had never turned away an autograph-seeker.
Norton Wales hooked his drive into deep grass to the left of the fairway. 'I think I'll leave it there, Darren,' he called, loudly enough for the spectators to hear. 'It might meet one just like it in that jungle and live happily ever after!'
They hustled down the fairway. Having underhit his drive, Skinner's second shot was too strong, but a good long putt from the back of the green secured him a four, one better than Murano's score. He stood at the side of the green, pressed alongside Sue Kinture and Joe, as Atkinson lined up his birdie attempt. He glanced at his caddy. She seemed in another world.
'Is the weather getting you down, Susan?'
`What? Oh, no. Sorry, Bob, I was miles away. Thinking about our cocktail party at Bracklands tonight. You and Sarah will come, won't you?'
Of course, we're both looking forward to it. We've got a local baby-sitter this time. Sarah's joined a mother's circle. It's a sort of co-operative, operating on a knock-for-knock basis. No one gets paid money. They all have wee plastic rings and each one's worth an hour.'
`Sounds very WRI!' she whispered.
They were interrupted by the bellow of the crowd as Atkinson's putt rolled unerringly into the hole for a two. As it fell into the cup, the ball made a small splash. Skinner looked up at the sky as they walked across to the thirteenth hole. 'I don't know if the course can absorb much more water,' he said as they reached the tee. 'Mind you, the sky's getting a bit lighter.'
Atkinson delved into his bag as they reached the tee. When he stood up he held the two isotonic drinks, and a plastic bag containing golf ball wrappings and damp hand towels. He threw the bag into a dustbin, and handed one of the drinks to Bravo, opening the other himself, and taking a long draught.
As long as it doesn't get too light, mate. I remember one time I played in the Open, not very far from here, in the worst July weather I've ever seen in Britain. It was the second round and I went out early. A howling gale, hail, freezing cold rain, you name it, God chucked it down that morning. I shot a seventy-one in that, and I still count it as maybe the finest round I've ever played. The next best that morning was a seventy-seven.
`Then, as soon as I stepped off the last green the wind dropped, the rain stopped and the skies cleared. Sandro Gregory was standing on the first tee waiting to play off. He gave me a big smile, the bastard, then went out and shot sixty-four. On the Sunday, he beat me for the championship by one shot. I've never forgiven God for that one!'
He stepped on to the tee and crunched a booming three-wood up the fairway of the par-five hole, leaving the ball placed perfectly for his second shot to the green. Skinner followed him, hitting a conservative two-iron which left him well behind the champion, but safe. The rain was easing slightly by the time he reached his ball. From where his drive had finished, the green was nowhere near in range. He asked Susan Kinture for his three- wood.
He was almost at the top of his back-swing, but was able to check the shot when he heard the crash of clubs and the surprised cry of the crowd. He turned to see Bravo, Atkinson's caddy, lying on the ground. His legs were kicking and convulsing, and he clutched himself in pain.
Atkinson stood over him looking aghast. Skinner rushed over to the fallen caddy. His eyes were rolling wildly, and his mouth was working.
`Darren, does he have any medical condition that you know of?'
The golfer shook his head. Not one that he's ever mentioned. It looks like he's having a fit, doesn't it?' He knelt beside Skinner, concern mingling with shock. 'Hold on Brav, old son.
We'll get help.'
Skinner looked around towards the crowd. 'I need a doctor,' he called. In swift response a short man in a long raincoat ducked under the rope barrier and bustled across the fairway. He turned to Sue Kinture. 'Susan, in my bag you'll find a telephone.' She unzipped the side pocket of his golfbag and, finding his flip-phone, brought it across. He switched it on, dialled in the unlocking code, impatiently, then pushed a short-coded number.
Andy, this is Bob. Where are you?'
I'm in the command centre, boss. The television's on so I know what the problem is. There's an ambulance on the way.' `Could you see what happened, exactly?'
`Yes, the camera was on him at the time. He put down the bag then he just crumpled up.
What is it?'
`Don't know.' He looked at the little doctor, who had joined them and was bent peering into Bravo's unfocused, panicking eyes. 'Doctor?' he asked, kneeling beside him.
`Could be an epileptic attack, or some other sort of cerebral incident, even stroke or haemorrhage. We'll need to get him out of here, quick.'
It's all right,' said Skinner. 'The paramedics are on their way.'
He spoke into the telephone again. 'Andy, tell Highfield to suspend play for the moment.' He turned to Atkinson. 'Darren, do you want to call it off?' Suddenly he felt his sleeve being gripped, tightly, as he crouched. He looked down. Bravo was staring at him, his eyes still wild and his brow knitted tightly. `No!' he whispered insistently. 'Don't, boss. Be OK! Drink.
Tasted funny.'
Skinner looked across the grass. The plastic soft drink bottle lay beside the fallen clubs.
'Doctor,' he said, 'could this be poisoning?'
It could,' said the little balding man, 'though I'm no expert. Equally, a cerebral incident could affect the sense of taste.' `Still, just in case.'
The ambulance swung on to the fairway as Skinner stood up, telephone still in hand. 'Andy, where are Neil and Mario?'
`McIlhenney's watching Morton. McGuire's about on the course, just keeping his eyes open.'
`Right, find McGuire and get him here on the double. And get the nearest uniform over here to collect a drinks bottle from me. I want it off to the lab for testing pretty damn quick. But even before you do that, there's something else. Do it very quietly, but very quickly. I want you to shut down every one of the drinks dispensing points around the course, and make sure that all of the stock stays where it is.'
‘Yes, boss. I'll attend to all of that. Meantime you just hang on there.'
`Got nowhere else to go, Andy.'
Skinner ended the call, and, as the paramedics prepared to lift Bravo on to a metal-framed stretcher, walked across to Atkinson's fallen clubs. Carefully, with his gloved left hand, he picked up the bottle. He looked around, and saw PC Pye running towards him, his uniform raincoat flapping.
