ric pondered the achievements of his life. Here he was, forty-two, single, and still only Assistant Green-keeper after twenty years grafting at the Little Grinton Golf Club. He sat on an upturned milk crate in the draughty shed and watched Mr Peck's digestive biscuit flop into his tea.

"I hear they've got a new Chairman up at the clubhouse," he said brightly. The macabre old man shrugged his shabby khaki cardigan, grunted and sent a shower of biscuit crumbs into the dusty air. "It'll be nice to have some new blood in the place," continued Eric "this club could do with livening up a bit."

"Won't make no fishin' difference to me," grumbled the old man, "Never 'ad a chairmen who knew the first thing about keepin' golf courses and I reckon as this one'll be no different." He dipped into the saggy pocket of his cardigan, drew out another fluffy grey biscuit and began to demolish it. "I'll outlast the bloody lot-of-'em," he added, grimacing at Eric whose stomach turned at the sight of the turgid putty of biscuit stuck in the crevice of his gums.

Peck was probably right. For fifty years the old man had terrorised the golfers. Many a strong man had been left quivering with terror or rage after a tirade of abuse from the green-keeper; perhaps for wearing the wrong shoe on the green, or being over-aggressive with the putter. Some of the lady members had suffered nervous breakdowns at his hands. However, to his credit he kept the greens and fairways pristine and the committee were too frightened to chastise him.

When Mr Peck had finished eating, he wiped his hands on the grey cardigan and hauled himself up on the handle of his spade.

"Can't 'ang around here all day. Got work to do," he muttered.

The two men pottered down the golf course to the eighteenth hole where a brush of gorse had started to impinge on the green. Peck clutched a selection of knives and saws and Eric steered the rusty wheelbarrow and before long they were hauling and hacking at the dusty black stalks.

Peck was suddenly gripped by a wheezing, rattling cough that left him breathless and blue. He sat down heavily on an upturned bucket just as two golfers breasted the horizon, brightly dressed in red and blue diamonds. One strode purposefully forward while the other shambled along some distance behind,

"Excuse me," said the man, "Would you mind standing clear while we play through?"

Eric could see the blood starting to rise in the old man's face. Peck rose from the bucket and scowled at the stranger.

"No. Bugger off." yelled Peck waving his pruning knife threateningly, "I've got a job that needs doin' here and unlike some people I don't have all day to ponce around in flashy jumpers actin' like I own the place. An' another thing," he jabbed a finger at the man's shoes, "You' ain't coming on my green with those shoes. I don't allow studs, they make a right mess. Look at the state of it !" He indicated a trail of terrible destruction that was visible only to him.

Major Johnson, a long-time member of the club, came puffing up behind the stranger.

"Ah, Peck," he began, seeming oblivious to the previous conversation, "this is Mr Potter. He's the new Chairman".

Eric clapped a hand to his mouth to suppress the delighted cry that welled up inside. Meanwhile, Peck's chest was wracked by another onslaught of the thick rattling cough. He punctuated it with a large gob of phlegm which narrowly missed the new Chairman's villainous shoe, then reached into his cardigan, pulled out a hip-flask and took a long, gulping drink.

"Nasty cough you have there, Mr Peck," said the Chairman, "I worry about you. It's not good for a man of your distinguished age to wander the greens on these frosty mornings. Come and see me next week."

Mr Peck was forced into retirement. There was an awkward farewell lunch during which the old man refused to come out of the corner where he drank cherry brandy from a hip-flask. Then Mr Peck emptied the green-keeper's shed of his meager belongings and left his grass to Eric.

One morning, Eric was called to the Chairman's office to be told that a lady member had taken offence at something she'd seen on the grass of the eighteenth. In fact, she had taken so much offence that she'd let out a small scream, abandoned her clubs and run off into the village with a hankie thrust to her mouth. Eric promised to investigate.

On his arrival at the hole he scanned the area looking for an unwelcome dog turd or dead rabbit. There was nothing obvious so he walked to the hole, removed the flag and peered in. Again - nothing. Replacing the flag he turned to walk back to his hut. In front of him, written in three foot high, dark green letters was the word:

He looked closer. The grass had grown thick and fast in the area of the letters. He'd seen it before - it was a classic green-keepers practical joke. By careful application of fertilizer you could produce a spurt of growth which would pick out shapes and letters in the invigorated grass.

He knew it was the work of the embittered old man. Who else would write 'knickers' in graffiti? The kids around the village were hardly likely to spray-paint something that innocuous on the side of the scout hut, were they? These days the old bugger was forever peering over his shoulder and making snide remarks.

Over the following month Eric fed and nurtured the surrounding grass until the letters disappeared from view. Peck watched him, every day, from the safety of the bushes.

When the green was almost back to it's original pristine state, the old man stole out under cover of darkness once more, clutching a watering can. By morning the patches of grass where the weed-killer had been applied were already starting to wilt, so that in the heat of the afternoon stark brown letters of shriveled turf spelled out the grim message :

Once more, Eric toiled to repair the damage, cursing the old man under his breath.

From that day Eric embarked on a campaign of night-watches on the troubled green. He built himself a hide in the bushes near the edge, and sat night after night, watching the circle of grass, leaping up at every rustle or animal cry.

One dark night he was woken from his slumber by a noise like a rattling cough. Eric peered from his hide and saw a dark figure crouched in the middle of the green. He leapt from the bushes and caught the Mr Peck in the beam of his torch. In one hand, the old man held a screwdriver while in the other he clutched a dandelion by its long taproot. His pockets were full of them and Eric could see that he'd been planting them all night, as the green was scattered with the infuriating yellow flowers and cankerous leaves.

Eric jumped forward and grabbed at the hand containing the troublesome weed. Mr Peck raised his arm in defence and the two fell to the ground rolling over and over as they struggled to control the screwdriver. Peck's head struck the flag-pole and in the fraction of a second that he lost concentration the screwdriver plunged deep into his fragile chest.

Eric lay panting on the grass for several minutes before turning his head. The old man was stiff and drawn and very dead and Eric panicked as his head clogged with terror. He would have to dispose of the body.

He returned to the green-keepers hut and collected a spade and the wheel-barrow. Back at the eighteenth hole he cut the turf away from a patch of rough grass to left of the green, rolling it carefully to one side. He dug out the earth into the wheelbarrow and dragged Mr Peck to the hole, his stomach sickening as the head bumped to the bottom. Then, covering the body with soil, he carefully replaced the turf and stamped it down to form an invisible grave.