Jack Lawton arose with the dawn. Stretching to his full 5 foot 8 inches, his blue and white striped pyjamas hanging from his scrawny frame, he yawned loudly and walked to his bedroom window. Opening the curtains he smiled, realising it would be another beautiful day as promised by the good old MET Office. Looking down from the first floor, his garden stretched out before him, resplendent in its vibrancy. The flowers were all in bloom, timed perfectly for the annual Most Beautiful Garden competition.

‘This year, it’s gonna be mine again.’ he muttered to himself, as he cast a wary glance into his neighbour’s garden. The shock of what he saw almost gave him the coronary his GP was predicting. ’I don’t bloody believe it! How ...?’

His neighbour’s garden looked alive in a way that made Jack’s appear merely two dimensional. The worst of it was, his neighbour - Albert ’Bert’ Deacon - had, for the last two weeks, been on yet another journey; Cornwall this time, the previous time had been Yorkshire, the time before - Perth in Scotland. All those fortnightly sojourns had happened over the space of the previous three months, yet his garden looked as though Alan Titchmarsh tended it on a daily basis.

Jack stormed into his bathroom, his previous good mood blown away like a sweet wrapper in a hurricane. Brushing his teeth was difficult - because he was swearing with a vehemence only the truly gifted could equal. He was struggling with the thought that - only yesterday! - Bert’s garden had looked bland. Neat, tidy ... sure. But few flowers bloomed. Today, just two days before the competition ... !

‘Do you have your garden set on a goddamn timer, you old fuck?!’ he shouted, spraying great gouts of toothpaste onto his bathroom mirror.

His ablutions complete, he stormed back into his bedroom, snatching up his clothes from the back of his armchair. Two minutes later he was thumping down his stairs, fastening the last of the buttons on his shirt. He threw open his front door, picked up his small bag of gardening tools - trowel, pruning shears, small fork, insecticide spray and assorted knickknacks - and, like a bear with a severe migraine (not to mention food-poisoning, arthritis, lumbago and a broken leg), stomped over to the dividing fence.

Leaning over to check out the competition, Jack almost wept with despair. Bert’s garden was perfect; the right blend and balance of colour, a beautiful layout and the healthiest flowers he - anyone! - had ever seen. For the second year in a row, Bert would undoubtedly win the competition.

‘It’s not fair!’ Jack cried to the rising sun, ’I work ... so hard on my garden. Six years on the trot I was undisputed best gardener in the village. This ... old git moves in and that very summer I lose to him. To him!! The short-arsed, bearded, grinning git!’

With self control bordering on non-existent it took Jack a good ten minutes of pacing and quiet swearing to regain composure. Then, deciding not to ruin his entire day, he began working on his garden.

‘Breakfast can wait.’ he muttered, kneeling next to his rose bed and calmly taking his pruning shears from his bag.

For three hours, Jack pottered about his garden; weeding, pruning, generally tidying up what was - Bert’s garden aside - the best garden in the village. The work took his mind from the competition and for the first time since he looked from his bedroom window that morning, Jack was at peace.

Until ...

‘Hello, Jack! Another beautiful day again. Man, it’s so good to be home.’

Jack almost beheaded his prize petunia. Looking up he saw the smiling, rotund, bearded face of his nemesis, Bert Deacon, leaning over the dividing fence.

‘Bert’ Jack replied, then turned back to his pruning.

‘Your garden’s looking good, Jack. Not long ‘til the competition, eh? Whaddya think, you in with a chance?’

Jack put his pruning shears back in his bag, stood up - his 64-year-old knees popping like champagne corks - and tried not to glare at his neighbour. It took quite a supreme effort when he noticed Bert tugging lightly at his wispy white beard.

‘I don’t know, Bert’ he said through teeth close to gritted, ‘Your garden is looking mighty fine, too.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it? I suppose I must have very good soil in my garden. I hardly need to work at it at all.’

‘Yes ... amazing. Quite.’

Bert again gave his beard a tug. The habit annoyed the hell out of Jack.

‘Enjoy your holiday then, Bert?’ Jack did his best to keep the conversation light and away from the gardening competition; he was feeling particularly fragile today.

‘Oh, wonderful.’ Bert tugged on his beard again. ‘You should visit Cornwall sometime, Jack. Beautiful, just beautiful.’ Tug. ‘All that natural beauty puts our hard work to shame.’

‘Well, can’t stay here yakking all day.’ Tug. ‘I’ll let you get back to work’

At that rather timely moment, Derek Wright - from the house at the far end of their street - stopped at Bert’s gate.

‘Bert! Glad to see you’re home again! Looking forward to winning the gardening competition again?’ Then he noticed Jack, as though he were somehow invisible in the shadow of Bert’s greatness. ’Oh, hi Jack. Didn’t see you there.’ He made a pretence of checking out Jack’s garden. ’Well, looks like Bert’s got stiff competition this year, huh?’ To his credit his face did redden ... a little.

‘Oh yes.’ Jack replied, fearing that his false teeth may snap under the pressure his jaw was submitting them to. ’I’m going to win back my crown this year, you’ll see.’

‘Good, good. Well ... er ... I have to be going. Shopping, you see.’ He gave Jack a little nod and, just before Jack turned away, he saw Derek beckon Bert with a crooked finger. Bert ambled on over to his gate and Jack heard Derek whisper something about soil acidity. All the time he was listening to Derek, Bert tugged absentmindedly at his beard.

‘Fucking traitor’, Jack growled under his breath, ’I gave you gardening advice for years and now you go running to that git. I’ll remember that, Derek Wright, don’t you fucking doubt it.’

Picking up his gardening bag, Jack stalked into his house - barely refraining from slamming the door behind him.

Three hours and one tasteless breakfast later, Jack walked into the local Keystore to get his daily provisions. He’d decided he was also going to buy a book to read instead of staring at the television all day, his mind doggedly returning to the gardening competition.

It was as he was perusing the paperbacks stacked on one of those annoyingly squeaky revolving racks that Bert entered the store and, thankfully failing to see Jack, strode to the counter.

‘Hi Bert,’ said Tom Pollock, proprietor of the shop, ’The usual, I take it?’

‘Please. You got a first-class stamp, too?’

‘Sure thing. So, how was your trip? Cornwall, wasn’t it?’

‘Yep. Magical, Tommy. Met an old friend, asked me to pop down again soon to look after his house and garden. He’s off for a month to visit his daughter in Australia.’

‘Really? When’s this, then?’

‘He’s going to call me when he knows himself. Still, he told me not to unpack so I expect it’ll be soon.’

‘You’ll be here to win the competition, though?’

‘I expect I’ll win whether I’m here or not!’ He laughed, tugging absentmindedly at his beard. Tommy joined in the laughter. It was as though he’d forgotten Jack was in the store.

Jack, however, was listening intently to this exchange while pretending to be looking over a book. It came to him that there was an often overlooked rule in the competition: the owner of the garden had to be in the village on the day of the competition, otherwise their garden was not allowed to be entered for judging. Maybe, just maybe, Bert’s friend would phone before the day and Bert wouldn’t be around to enter the competition!

... But could Jack rely on that happening?

As Jack seethed, his mind turned to more nefarious thoughts. His hands, meanwhile, had balled up the slim paperback he was holding. With a small gasp, Jack tried his best to flatten the book into a more natural state. He glanced at the title before jamming it at the back of the lowest rack: The Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman.

His mind a maelstrom of violent thoughts, Jack walked up his street. Just before he reached his front gate, he could hear Bert ... cooing to his flowers.

‘My, you look beautiful today. Particularly so, if you don’t mind me saying. This gorgeous day has really brought out the very best of you, hasn’t it? I swear, God really knew what He was doing when He made you. Nothing else in Nature compares. You’re simply stunning, my darlings.’

Bert broke off from the wave of compliments when Jack crashed through his own gate, violently swinging it closed behind him.

‘Good afternoon, Jack.’ Bert glanced at the plastic Keystore bag in Jack’s hand. ‘The store not have what you were looking for?’

Bert, Jack noticed, was tugging absentmindedly at his beard again.

‘Yes, thank you. I hear you’re returning to Cornwall soon?’ Jack surprised himself at the calmness in his voice.

‘Why, yes. I just caught a call when I returned from the store. My friend wants to know if I could come down on Monday.’ Tug. ‘That’s the day after the competition, so I said I’d be delighted.’ Tug.

Jack’s false teeth creaked ominously.

‘Monday. So you’ll not miss the competition? Good.’ Then sotto voce, ‘Just fucking brilliant.’

‘I thought so.’ Tug.

‘Bert,’ Jack said in a tight voice, ‘Could you please stop tugging on your beard? I find it a most ... annoying habit.’

‘Tugging ...?’ Tug.

‘Tugging! Yes, tugging! Stop fucking tugging your beard!’ Jack yelled, his composure finally evaporating.

Bert stared, absentmindedly tugging his beard.

‘You okay, Jack?’ Tug.

Jack screamed ‘Aaaaaaaaargggggggghhhhh!!’ and kicked out at a plastic gnome he used to decorate his small garden fountain. The gnome’s head flew off, straight through Jack’s living room window.

There was an unearthly hush. It stretched as both Jack and Bert stared at the shattered window.

‘Maybe you should have a lie down, Jack?’ Tug.

Moments later, the silence was also shattered as Jack slammed his front door behind him.

The evening seemed to stretch interminably as Jack seethed quietly, sitting in his living room. A small draught whistled through the piece of board Jack had nailed to his window frame. The glazer couldn’t fix his window until Monday ... unless it was an emergency and Jack feared the local youths might break in. The glazer had chuckled at this as the local ‘youths’ were at least 50 years old. Burnside was a small village populated with retirees, semi-retired or local people who hadn’t gone off to seek their fortune in the big wide world.

So, it was now - Jack glanced at his wall clock - 10.33pm. He’d gone into his garden at teatime, after boarding up his window, to do a little more work in his garden. Although he found the idea ridiculous - always had - he tried talking to his flowers. His mood didn’t really help:

‘So, you want me to talk with you?’ he’d whispered, afraid Bert might hear, ‘ Okay. How about this, then; shape up, you lazy bastards! Look how well his flowers are doing. They’re just over the fence there and he doesn’t work even half as hard as I do. But his flowers are prime specimens while you lot look like you couldn’t give a flying fuck! This is how you repay all my hard work? Well, thanks for fuck all!’

Disheartened, he come back in after 10 minutes pottering around aimlessly and hadn’t moved for the last 4 hours.

He was about to get up and make a cup of tea when he heard Bert’s front door open.

‘Good evening, my darlings. Have you had a nice day?’

Jack felt one of his false teeth give way as he imagined Bert praising his flowers whilst tugging on his beard. Spitting out the tooth he arose slowly, went to his front door, picked out his spade - which was still standing behind the door - and walked out to greet Bert.

‘Evening, Bert!’ he called, his voice light and care-free.

‘Jack? You feeling a little better?’ Tug.

Jack walked over to the dividing fence, glad to see Bert start walking towards him.

‘Will be soon, Bert.’ he replied, a widening smile creeping across his face.

When Bert came close enough, Jack swung his spade as hard and fast as he could, connecting with Bert’s head just below the left temple. The hard edge of the spade’s blade bit deep and was almost pulled from Jack’s grasp as Bert toppled over with nary a grunt.

Jack quickly scanned the street. All was quiet, no one was at their window or out in their garden. Smiling the smile of the truly content, Jack climbed over the fence.

‘Where to bury you?’ he almost sang while he waited for Bert’s twitching to subside. ‘Ah, the very place.’ He sauntered over to the rose bed and started to dig. It took him three hours to dig up Bert’s rose bed - being careful not to damage the roses - dump Bert’s body into the hole and - after gleefully pulling Bert’s beard from his face and stuffing it in Bert’s mouth - refill the hole then replant the roses. By the time he was finished Bert’s garden looked untouched.

‘Shame you have to be away on the day of the competition, Bert. You might have won, you know.’

He laughed as he entered Bert’s house, unplugged all the appliances, turned off all the lights and carried Bert’s travel case out of the front door. Locking the door behind him, Jack was still laughing when he climbed back over the fence with the case, spade and keys. He was still laughing when he went upstairs, flushed the keys down his toilet, cleaned the spade of all the blood, bone and brain materials and put the case in his attic. He was still laughing when he went to bed.

On the day of the competition Jack lamented his ‘old friend’s absence but gratefully accepted the award for Best Garden. In a short speech - he smiled throughout - Jack was gracious in accepting that had his ‘old friend’ not had to house-sit for a friend it would be Bert accepting the prize, not him. Several people, including Derek Wright, nodded their assent. Jack noted their faces.

He spent the day revelling in the glory and offering words of advice to those who sought out his expertise. All in all, Jack was as happy as a pig in shit.

He laughed all the way home.

That night, Jack awoke from a wonderful dream where he was patting Alan Titchmarsh on the back, saying ‘Nice try, young man. If you ever want to know how to plant a prize-winning garden, you come to me.’ Charlie Dimmock awaited Jack when he got home but he was just about to strip off and get into bed with her when ...

his stairs creaked.

Awakened with a start, Jack didn’t immediately realise what had caused the termination of his wonderful dream.

‘What ...?’ he spluttered ... then his stairs creaked again.

Jack froze, fear making his eyes wide, his breath almost ceasing.

His stairs creaked again. Suddenly, Jack wished he owned a chamber pot.

‘Who ... who ...wh-?’

The stairs creaked again, halting Jack’s owl impression mid-hoot. His heart was pumping wildly out of control and Jack couldn’t calm himself. He was reaching for the bedside lamp when he heard his bedroom door creak open.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled, over-reaching and falling out of bed. Scrambling to his feet he yelled the first thing that came to mind, ‘I’ve got a gun!’, and switched on his bedside lamp.

‘You! That’s !... You’re !... What ...?!’ he gasped, seeing the impossible apparition that stood just inside his bedroom.

He wasn’t laughing when he died.

‘Here comes the Chief. Maybe he’ll make some sense of it.’

The young policeman stood aside as a grizzled, heavy-built man smelling of tobacco bulled his way into Jack’s bedroom.

‘Okay, lads. Lay it on me.’ Detective Sergeant Harman barked at the two young village coppers. This was the first time he’d had to come out to this little backwater. For a murder, no less.

‘Victim is one John ‘Jack’ Lawton, 64 years old, widower of 9 years, no children, lived alone, recently won a Best Garden competition, found dead by one of his neighbours - a Mister ...’ the young policeman flipped forward a few pages in his notepad, ‘ ...a Mister Derek Wright, who claimed to have noticed Mister Lawton’s front door lying wide open at 7am this morning when he went to get his morning rolls. He claims he called out but on receiving no answer proceeded to seek out Mister Lawton’s whereabouts, just in case he was injured after a fall or gardening accident. He found Mister Lawton like this -’, the young PC indicated the body on the floor of the bedroom ’- and immediately called the local police. That’s us. Oh, and he says he was sick first so if you’re on your way to the toilet, careful where you step. Seems he didn’t quite make it.’

The Detective nodded to the young policeman who stepped back, allowing a better view of the body.

Jack’s body was wrapped tightly in green vines, some of those vines extending down into a throat jammed to bursting.

‘Someone stuffed these plants down his throat? Perhaps jealous of his recent triumph in the competition?’ The Detective picked up a stray piece of vine. ’Anyone found out what this is, yet?’

The young policeman stepped forward, flipping through the pages of his notepad once more.

‘I - um - asked Mister Wright before he left if he had any idea, Sir. Seems it’s ... Clem - clemay -’

‘Let’s see that notepad, Constable.’ The PC handed it over. ’Okay, what have we got ... right, Clematis Vitalba. Latin, huh? What’s that in plain English?’

‘Over the page, Sir’

The Detective flipped over the page and read:

‘Clematis Vitalba; Old Man’s Beard.’