Free The Vacant Casualty by Patty O'Furniture

unpleasant words and simplistic imagery.
    ‘I’ll get you some refreshment,’ the major said, disappearing into his pantry for ten minutes, from whence emerged strange noises which they felt they couldn’t
investigate. At last the madman reappeared and plonked three bowls of custard on the table.
    ‘For my guests,’ said the major, and before they could respond he poured a bottle of crème de menthe into three pint-pots and handed them out.
    ‘We’re here—’ began Bradley, but not quick enough, for the major now stood, raised a bugle to his lips and played a shrieking rendition of the last post. Finally he sat
down again, wiping a sad tear from his one good eye.
    ‘Come on, sunshine,’ said Sam. ‘You can give it a rest with us.’
    ‘Eh?’ asked the major, twisting his face somewhere between a scowl and a look of utter incomprehension.
    ‘You’re not actually mad. Anyone can see.’
    The major seemed determined to be affronted for a second, but then relented and relaxed, and said in a quite ordinary voice, ‘Oh, all right. But so long as you don’t tell anyone.
What gave me away?’
    ‘Well, you’re wearing your eyepatch on the other eye today, for starters.’
    ‘Hah! I knew I’d got something wrong. That’s the trouble with being startled by the doorbell – which is why I give it such a repugnant noise.’
    ‘And you’re three quarters of the way through this
Guardian
cryptic crossword here.’
    ‘I’m impressed. You’ve looked closely enough to see that the answers are correct?’
    ‘Well, no . . .’ admitted Sam, looking down.
    ‘Hah – now you’re wondering if the answer to sixteen across really could be “pissbucket”. But then, it is the
Guardian
. They’d probably run that as a
title to a children’s cartoon, just to confront old-fashioned attitudes to swearing.’
    ‘But I guessed that if you were going to fill the crossword with nonsense, why stop halfway through? And also, what self-respecting, warmongering retired major would be reading the
Guardian
in the first place . . .’
    ‘Fair enough,’ said the major.
    ‘And what about the sheep’s head?’ asked Sam.
    ‘It’s plastic.’
    Sam started to look closer, but it was so convincing that in his hungover state he couldn’t bear to do so. ‘And the painting of the buffalo’s arse?’ he asked.
    ‘The
what
? You terrible bastard, that’s my
wife
!’
    Sam didn’t have any idea what to say back and instead looked around the room, avoiding the major’s goggle-eyed stare.
    ‘So why the act?’ asked Bradley, intervening.
    ‘Oh well, you know. People around here are so
boring
. You were at the meeting. What did you see?’
    The guests were unsure if they were really being asked to reply.
    Instead the major quickly answered for himself: ‘Prudes, freaks, prats, bores, virgins, thickos, creeps and fucking
Tories
! No wonder I pretend to be mad. Last thing I want is them
charging in here and disturbing my peace. Talking of which, let’s not stay in this freak show of a room – this is just to put off someone who gets as far as the kitchen. Come on,
let’s go through here.’
    He reached forward to a bookshelf at the far end of the room and pressed on the spine of
The Essays of Montaigne
, releasing a secret door. Within was a library-cum-sitting room, sparsely
furnished with a Mac on a table, an architect’s desk, a low sofa with a few chairs and several thousand books on dark-wood shelves.
    ‘You’re an architect?’ asked Sam.
    ‘It’s a hobby. Mostly small buildings for exclusive clients. I also write a blog about riverside wildlife and I’m a main player in the longest-running online game of
Dungeons and Dragons
in the world. Life’s pretty sweet sometimes, you know, when you’re retired . . .’
    ‘So why be on the Parish Council?’ asked Bradley, sitting down. ‘Surely that’s putting yourself into the lion’s den, so to speak? Or the lion’s mouth, do I
mean?’
    ‘Neither. The last