The Pool

‘The buggers are in our pool again, look.’ He steered his wife to the villa window and stood behind her, arms crossed, anger seething. ‘Every bloody morning at seven!’

‘You’ve done all you can, Gareth,’ she replied. ‘Please, don’t let it spoil our holiday, they’re just lads from the village.’

They breakfasted defiantly on the terrace to a chorus of shrieks and splashes from below.

‘I’m driving into town this morning,’ he announced, draining his coffee cup. ‘Have a look round the old fort.’ She kissed him goodbye, wiping a dribble of honey from his chin with a little finger.

By noon he was back, lugging a hefty plastic drum into the shrubs behind the pool. The day passed easily, the man seeming calmer and to have come to accept the morning intrusions.

He woke before dawn, slipping silently from the room, down to the pool to retrieve the container. He unscrewed the heavy black lid and gently tipped twenty seven adult Piranhas into the deep end.

It was dark in the shuttered room when he pulled up the sheet and settled back to sleep. His wife stirred but didn’t wake.

The screams started at 6.35. ‘That’ll teach the bastards,’ he muttered, eyes still shut, turning to cuddle his wife.

But the bed was empty, except for a scribbled note on her pillow.

‘Gone for a dip xx’.

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