BASSIC INSTINCT *

 The Curmudgeon stirred in his sleep. Something at the edge of his subconscious had pulled him from the deep dream he'd been having of Isabelle Adjani.

A tapping noise, at once rhythmic but annoying had intruded. He woke and reached out for Isabelle ... sorry, The Old Girl but she wasn't there! "WTF?" he thought before remembering that she was away working for 6 weeks in Pamukkalle Valley, Turkey. He eased himself to the edge of the bed and listened intently. Yes, there it was again, a rhythmic but annoying tapping. It couldn't be .....

Richard had positioned himself on the rise at the rear of The Curmudgeon's house. It had a clear view of the master bedroom windows and he had concentrated on the left one - the one that, when the blinds were opened afforded the best view of the majestic Mount Manaia.

His preliminary observations had confirmed that The Curmudgeon opened the blinds each morning and looked at the mountain. It was a magnificent sight ... well, TC was always naked.

Richard had scoped in the shot he planned to take and had researched wind and temperature conditions that would affect the trajectory of the bullet. He was ready.

He was too ready in effect and, inexplicably given his career choice and the musical instruments he played, was bored. He found himself humming that Czardas tune and involuntary tapping out what he thought was the beat on the stock of his rifle - the Springfield M25 7.62mm he favoured. He drifted a bit. Well, at his age he drifted a lot and was surprised when the window blinds were suddenly raised and The Curmudgeon looked out. TC was looking out directly at where Richard was nestled at the top of the rise. Panicked, Richard took the shot but, instead of gently squeezing the trigger he pulled it rather violently and the shot, the cheap shot went astray.

The Curmudgeon, after raising the blinds, instead of looking directly at the mountain, had, due to that annoying sound turned his head to the right. He saw something - a frantic movement a microsecond before the window exploded and a projectile tore past his ear. "Fuck!" he exclaimed. He looked down and quickly covered himself "Bloody Isabelle Adjani" he thought as he brushed off bits of glass and struggled into underpants (Swanndri red tartan) and shorts. Richard!

Richard cursed and quickly packed away his weapon, collected his things that were scattered around him. He only had the essentials - double bass, metronome, violin, violin strings, extra violin strings, coffee in a thermos, bag of meat pies, spare underpants (Swanndri green tartan), incontinence pants (just in case), self-improvement book, Italian dictionary, cellphone, slippers, medicines (heart, piles, anxiety, headache, arthritis, rheumatism, gout, constipation, flatulence and the special little blue ones). He packed these into the large suitcase, shouldered the rifle in its carry bag, grabbed the suitcase and headed off to his car that he'd 'conveniently' parked a kilometre away. "Hey! the parking was cheaper there" he remonstrated with himself.

The Curmudgeon swung into action. He creaked his way to a standing position and looked around for his socks which he eventually found under the bed. This involved getting down on one knee and gently rolling over on to his side to reach under the bed. He creaked his way back to a sitting position and put them on. "T-shirt" he thought and picked up the one on the floor, turned it the right side out and proceeded to put it on "Bugger" he thought when he looked down to see that it was stained with sauce from the pasta Siciliana he'd had for dinner the night before. "The Old Girl won't like that" he said to himself and went to his shirt drawer to find a clean one. He finished dressing and, put his shoes on and raced went to the back door. He didn't see but heard an old Mitsubishi car racing crawling away in the distance, "Bugger" he said.

TC knew that it would be hopeless to pursue Richard. This wasn't because he wouldn't be able to overtake him, the way he drove. No it was because he had a flat tyre. That slow leak had gotten worse. He'd purchased a new 12v air compressor only a few days earlier but hadn't yet taken it out of the box or read the instructions for use.

He knew what he had to do. He had to call Mike. Mike from tennis. I know what you readers think - Mike from tennis is a pain in the arse but - he has connections. TC eventually got hold of Mike, explained the situation and his suspicion that Richard was behind it. Mike said that he 'knew some people' and would get on to it. Before he could start an argument about the Labour Party, gun control, Trumpism and Princess Di, TC put the phone down.

Mike indeed 'knew some people'. He had in his early life been a member of the special forces (SAS) and later had been seconded to the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service (SIS). It didn't take long for his old contacts to find and update Richard's file. Richard was on file you see from his days as president of a fringe university group that had been initially labelled as dangerous, then downgraded to annoying and ultimately as harmless. It stayed on record though and Richard had for the last 50 years been under 'soft' surveillance. The SIS knew for example that he had been cultivating contacts with Italian dissidents and had hosted one recently. Watchers had reported his movements often involving carrying large bags of bulky equipment and of creating horrendous noises at night inside his house.

Mike's contact reported back that Richard, after leaving Whangarei had gone to ground somewhere. Undeterred they had then interrogated  interviewed Richard's family members as to  his whereabouts. All but one, being suspicious of the SIS and protective of Richard, assured the SIS officers that they did not know where he was. The one however, a brother named Robert said "I can't lie as that's a sin. I think that Richard's favourite town is Foxton. He enjoys staying in a motel there." 

*******

EPILOGUE

The motel in Foxton was raided' by the special forces on SIS instructions. The Springfield rifle was never recovered nor was the double bass or the violins (domestic ones). There was no sign of Richard or the old Mitsubishi motorcar. A thorough search uncovered a bizarre stash of old MAN magazines and other 1950s and early 1960s 'porn', empty and as yet unidentified wine bottles and huge boxes of rusted Evah Pirazzi violin strings. Investigations are still on-going.

The Curmudgeon, after having had the window mended and cleaning up all evidence of the event 'before The Old Girl got home' went about his business as normal. Well, nearly normal. He never again stood naked in front of that window that looked out on Mount Manaia and especially not after waking from a dream about Isabelle Adjani,

Robert sat in the confessional at Saint 'Salive church. He was mumbling and his confessor Father Offshaw had to ask him to speak up. "I prayed for him Father, I really did." he said through tears. "Ah don't fuss yersel' Rob" said the confessor "He was goin' to Hell anyways."

* A reader had complained that the posts are boring so I felt that a bit of excitement was needed in the posts kind of like the Denzil Meyrick novels I've been reading.