Filthy Green

A green and pleasant place. 

Brand-labelled umbrellas, some opened, others hanging at angles, all blooming from the winter-worn and drink-stained tables at the front of the pub. The locals sat, either studying their phone, as pairs locked in conversation, or as groups of friends boldly stating opinions and bias.

Old stone walls and ancient windows stood dried and transformed by the warm day. Crisp packets of sunshine drifted a welcome glare across bare shoulders and new sunglasses before softening behind a breeze to glow, appreciated but unnoticed.

Off to one side, in a corner formed between the car park wall and the front of the pub, a pair of black dogs lay beneath a table over which two middle aged blokes lent, one distraught, one feeling inept at providing advice.  Two pints sat at hand, awkwardly angled on the warped planks, a sip or two depleted but destined to join their froth-ringed predecessors gathered to the side. A forehead was pressed on bent fingers and propped by an elbow. It supported a dejected face unwilling to rise to the ruddy ale-fuelled compassion being proffered by the owner of the dogs.

A youthful trio gathered around a smarter chrome and poly-cane table, its top scattered with mixers, straws and drained glasses.   A long haired, tattooed primary school teacher wearing a rock band vest, store-frayed jeans and a vintage armband was attempting to enthral two young girls with tales of his questionable adventures. The smitten blondes were lightly disputing his claims when a junior manager arrived, removing his tie before joining them with a high five and cheek touches. A laugh burst from the trio at his greeting and again as his bottle of white wine was shared out.

At a smaller white painted wrought-iron setting, restlessly exploring the extent of its floral lead, a small white something-poo snuffled around a pair of waxed, stiletto-propped legs. Their owner wistfully surveyed the laneway.  Next to her Fendi handbag a smart wine cooler projected a corkless neck and in her hand microbubbles trailed elegantly up a long-stemmed glass.

The sounds of the town were muted in the background. From the hedgerow surrounding the pub and from the backyards of the neighbouring homes, blackbird, robin and chaffinch song penetrated the patrons' babble. A collared dove perched atop a nearby roof, cooing for its mate, then took brief flight to resettle on a For Sale sign at the front gate of the house opposite.

A dark van slid quietly to a stop at the end of the laneway and a large BMW followed, gliding to rest without disturbing the dove. No one opened a door and both vehicles remained stationary. Their engines could be heard at idle, the air-con clicking on and off sporadically.

Four sets of nervous eyes surveyed the mechanical stakeout. Conversations hung, dogs got held to shorter leashes or were gathered to lap. The van’s side door slid open and with military precision eight helmeted, Kevlar-clad, weapon carrying solid bodies sprinted in a flank towards the drinkers.

The two dogs were pulled even closer as their owner reached over to his companion. “Keep it together Keith, don’t lose it now” . The faces of the teacher and junior manager drained to ash and the fingers of the waxen-legged beauty began to frantically delete contact lists from her 'phone.

The armed group crashed through the beer garden, yelling at everyone to stay put as behind them the BMW doors swung open and four even more heavily padded warriors burst out. Two ran to the rear of the For Sale property and the remaining two, the largest hefting an impact ram, smashed down the front door screaming "NO ONE MOVE!". Rapid shots were exchanged with flashes lighting up the feature windows of the 1940’s house. Half of the soldiers controlling the beer garden instantly broke formation and sprinted towards the house, the four remaining yelled at the patrons to keep their heads down.

The fracas abated quickly, a large covered truck sped up the lane and reversed into the front yard of the house. Three people, two bleeding from head wounds were bundled roughly out through the front door of the house and into the truck. The sound of steel doors being slammed inside the truck echoed around the beer garden. A lifeless form, smashed and spilling gore was dragged onto the front lawn, covered and lifted unceremoniously into the back of the truck. The rear door slammed and the truck moved off.

The four soldiers left on guard in the beer garden ensured the patrons remained low. From behind the wheel of the van slid an authoritative figure. She calmly approached the house, spoke to the guards at the door, glanced at the departing truck and made her way to the beer garden. Addressing the patrons she apologised for the trauma caused, explained the matter had been well planned and the outcome was expected.  With a hard smile she proffered that every caution had been taken to ensure their safety. Directing the soldiers in the distribution of cards she asked the patrons to contact the numbers listed for a de-brief the next day. With the identical precision of their arrival, all but two armed bodies returned to the vehicles and departed the scene. The two remaining soldiers stood brutish and helmeted outside the For Sale house.

Normality did not return easily to the beer garden. The paedophile and the corporate fraudster tried vainly to recover the earlier bonhomie with the frightened girls. The murderer downed his beer in a swallow, his distraught expression compounded now by confused relief. The Russian S&M madam lowered her fluffy dog to the ground and calmly dialled the elected member to defer their liaison.

Such a filthy little town in a green and deceptively pleasant land.