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Caporegime
They arrive home in the late afternoon, the devastating sunshine of midday now tempering to a warm glow. It’s bright, almost too bright. He shields his eyes as he parks the car in the drive, the gate behind them closing smoothly. She says something and the daughter responds; he remains quiet. It’s been a very long day. He gets out of the car and is about to search for his door keys when something catches his eyes. Something glinting, reflecting the sun. He stops, mentions something to his wife and heads to the back garden. The shape begins to take form. It can’t be, can it?
“That magnificent *******,” he breathes, taking in the view. “He did it.”
He walks over to the pool. It’s almost Olympic size, he guesses, and the ceramic tiling is exquisite. He runs his hand over an edge, enjoying the mirror-like feel it has. He dips a finger into the deep, clear blue. Raises it. Holds it up to the light before bringing it to his lips and licking it. “Water!” he exclaims. “Clever. Very clever. He’s thought of everything.”
There are pipes and filters and an assortment of other things he doesn’t recognise. He nods his head sagely. “Stuff,” he says, “that does things, no doubt. Almost certainly. Wouldn’t surprise me. Not one bit.”
He suddenly realises he should take a picture, perhaps more than one. The thought just appears and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place. “Woman!” he calls and the wife looks up from the kitchen. “Prepare the camera!” he orders. She nods, muttering something but he can’t hear it. It was probably thanks, he thinks, considering. Gratitude for his foresight to capture this vision before it – God please, no! – disappears.
“I should put more water in it!” he thinks suddenly. He ambles over to the hosepipe, eyeing it suspiciously – it’s caught him out more than once but he’s ready this time.
“Come at me ho,” he whispers.
TO BE CONTINUED.
“That magnificent *******,” he breathes, taking in the view. “He did it.”
He walks over to the pool. It’s almost Olympic size, he guesses, and the ceramic tiling is exquisite. He runs his hand over an edge, enjoying the mirror-like feel it has. He dips a finger into the deep, clear blue. Raises it. Holds it up to the light before bringing it to his lips and licking it. “Water!” he exclaims. “Clever. Very clever. He’s thought of everything.”
There are pipes and filters and an assortment of other things he doesn’t recognise. He nods his head sagely. “Stuff,” he says, “that does things, no doubt. Almost certainly. Wouldn’t surprise me. Not one bit.”
He suddenly realises he should take a picture, perhaps more than one. The thought just appears and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place. “Woman!” he calls and the wife looks up from the kitchen. “Prepare the camera!” he orders. She nods, muttering something but he can’t hear it. It was probably thanks, he thinks, considering. Gratitude for his foresight to capture this vision before it – God please, no! – disappears.
“I should put more water in it!” he thinks suddenly. He ambles over to the hosepipe, eyeing it suspiciously – it’s caught him out more than once but he’s ready this time.
“Come at me ho,” he whispers.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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