The Ghost Children of Hole Twelve
We stood in the middle of the old stone bridge. All our sketches and notes were neatly arranged in piles along its entire length, completely covering the astro-turfed walkway. Professor Thomas picked up a few sheets of A4 at random and waved them in our faces.
"Are these yours?"
We didn't reply.
"Are these yours?" he repeated, removing his surgeon's mask and hat.
This time we nodded in unison.
"Well, I need you to get rid of them. NOW."
He released the sheets from between his fingers. They rose high on a gust of wind before gracefully descending onto the surface of the creek. We turned to each other in silent disbelief. Those stacks of paper represented years of work: plans for graphic novels; film story-boards; abandoned poems; draft novellas… we couldn't just "get rid of them". But what else were we supposed to do? Monica's shed was crammed from floor to ceiling with obsolete medical equipment; and we'd been banned ON PAIN OF SECOND DEATH from using any of the derelict anaesthetic rooms as temporary storage bays.
We watched as Professor Thomas negotiated his way across the bridge and back onto the green. Nigel — his trusted caddy — was waiting by the flag, closely guarding the precious strumenti. The time was not yet ripe. Only when we were absolutely certain nobody was observing us — when the Professor was on the verge of introducing the actual tip of his putter-scalpel — would we allow our true feelings to emerge.
