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For someone who had never played golf, Rupert was extremely critical, questioning everything from Michael’s stance to his swing to his choice of clubs. His focus was entirely on Michael, not on Simon or Nathan, who became irritated by Rupert’s continual haranguing of Michael, explaining that he was by far the best player.
His eyes searched the room and came to rest on Rupert’s face. And there, on his forehead, was the mosquito, sucking intently on Rupert’s blood. Without even thinking, Michael turned to the chimney, unhooked the bread shovel from beside the oven, and used it to smack the mosquito out of existence.
He knew instinctively that Rupert was dead but felt a surprising lack of guilt.
