Hunters | Terry Grimwood
Seventy-two hours from Christmas Day and the perfume counter clientele were no longer females with time and desire to linger, but panic-stricken men demanding that Anita tell them what scent their wives and girlfriends would like.
A pretty woman with long Celtic-red hair and pale skin, Anita used a well-practised smile to hide her contempt for the white-faced, hard breathing males as they shoved wads of notes or credits cards in her face and begged olfactory omniscience.
There was no joy in this noel.
Or love.
But, Anita knew it was this stampede of snarling greed and fear-driven profligacy that paid her salary and bonus. Yuletide cash-for-crap Anita called it, but never out loud.
“Hello," said the customer as it grew dark outside and the crush finally began to abate.
Smile refreshed, Anita turned to her new client.
He was alone. Dark brown eyes, fetchingly unruly hair, leather jacket, roll neck sweater -
No, not a roll neck, a clerical collar. The man was a priest.
Anita’s smile became genuine. “How can I help?”
“For my sister,” he said. “I have no idea…” He shrugged, Just another helpless male at the perfume counter. But this male was different, polite, quietly spoken. He made Anita feel shy.
“How old is she?” Anita asked. “What sort of person, outgoing? Fun loving?”
“Fun loving definitely.”
Anita selected the most popular of the year. “It’s pricey I’m afraid but a gorgeous scent.” The priest allowed her to spray a little on his wrist. She held his hand, felt the beat of his pulse. Her own heart rate increased.
He put his wrist to his nose. “I like that.”
“I’m sure your sister will as well.”
He paid then made affable small talk while Anita wrapped the perfume. She was nervous.
“What…What church do you run?” she asked.
“Run? Oh, no, I’m not employed as a parish priest at the moment. I have other duties, but I am affiliated to St Cyprian’s, in Marylebone Road. Why do you ask?”
“I need to talk to someone…” Her words dragged in the night.
The priest was suddenly serious. The kindness in his eyes made Anita want to cry.
“Of course. Can you come to St Cyprian’s tomorrow night? There’s an early evening jazz concert, so probably best if you don’t get there until it’s over, say eight-thirty.”
“Thank you,” said Anita and watched him leave the shop.
She walked along Baker Street, past restaurants and bars and night-closed shops, shivering though she was bundled into the thickest jumper and warmest coat she could find.
Alleyway.
And life. Hidden in the stinking, icy shadows, a small, warm bundle of blood and flesh, scurrying, heedless and consumed by its hungers. Anita stopped and took a faltering step into the dark.
She dropped into a crouch. There it was, jammed between two swollen and packed bin bags, gnawing at the plastic covered cornucopias.
The taking was all instinct. Suddenly the rat was in her gloved right hand, a squirming shrieking bundle of flesh and animal soul. Anita growled contentedly then sank her teeth into the warm fur of its back. Flesh parted and blood squirted hotly into her mouth. Anita’s trembling stopped.
The priest was chatting to the jazz roadies as they packed lights and amps. He glanced round, dazzled Anita with his smile and beckoned her to follow him.
He led the way through a maze of low-ceilinged, dim-lit passageways to an office.
Anita sat down, made awkward by the priest’s proximity. He poured coffee from a pot on a small corner table. Anita politely refused. She didn’t want caffeine, she wanted redemption.
The priest perched himself on the desk. There was no barrier between them.
“Take your time.” he said. “Find the words.”
“I don’t think I have a soul,” Anita said.
The priest leaned forward. He frowned, but there was no scepticism in the expression.
“What makes you say that Anita?”
“I…I’m a monster. I’m not human.”
“What are you then?”
Suddenly she couldn’t speak. Darkness reared inside her. This was a priest, the enemy -
No, he was the first good man she had met.
“I’m a flesh eater, a murderer.”
“Who have you murdered?”
“The homeless, the lost, people who wouldn't be missed, people who are missed. When I’m hungry I can’t stop myself.”
The priest reached out, suddenly and grabbed her hand. “Is this the truth Anita?”
She nodded. “I made a bargain…I was lonely, depressed. It was my face…I had a birthmark, a huge wine stain. I went to a séance with a colleague. Something whispered to me and asked what I wanted most in the world.”
“But there was a price.”
“I didn’t understand, I was young. Now I want it to stop.”
“God wants it to stop as well." the priest held her hands tightly. “Do you know what I am?”
Anita shook her head.
“An exorcist. I can cast this thing out of you. Do you want me to do that?”
“Yes.”
“It will be terrible but it will be gone.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ve been looking for you Anita. I didn’t come into that shop by accident. God led me to you. We know about your crimes, the police are not interested, just more deaths in the shadows. But the church, we recognised what was happening.”
Anita gripped his hands now. She wanted him to hold her. The priest smiled gently, stood and went to his desk, back turned.
“I’m going to free you. Do you trust me Anita?”
“I trust you.” she said.
“God help me” he groaned.
Then spun round, wooden stake gripped in both hands.
There was pain, and searing, searing grief. His blood was hot in Anita’s mouth. His death, ice in whatever she had for a soul. In the final moment he was clumsy and she was ready, because she had known the moment she first saw him; hunter recognising hunter.
He had wept as he came for her. As she wept now.
Seventy-two hours from Christmas Day and the perfume counter clientele were no longer females with time and desire to linger, but panic-stricken men demanding that Anita tell them what scent their wives and girlfriends would like.
A pretty woman with long Celtic-red hair and pale skin, Anita used a well-practised smile to hide her contempt for the white-faced, hard breathing males as they shoved wads of notes or credits cards in her face and begged olfactory omniscience.
There was no joy in this noel.
Or love.
But, Anita knew it was this stampede of snarling greed and fear-driven profligacy that paid her salary and bonus. Yuletide cash-for-crap Anita called it, but never out loud.
“Hello," said the customer as it grew dark outside and the crush finally began to abate.
Smile refreshed, Anita turned to her new client.
He was alone. Dark brown eyes, fetchingly unruly hair, leather jacket, roll neck sweater -
No, not a roll neck, a clerical collar. The man was a priest.
Anita’s smile became genuine. “How can I help?”
“For my sister,” he said. “I have no idea…” He shrugged, Just another helpless male at the perfume counter. But this male was different, polite, quietly spoken. He made Anita feel shy.
“How old is she?” Anita asked. “What sort of person, outgoing? Fun loving?”
“Fun loving definitely.”
Anita selected the most popular of the year. “It’s pricey I’m afraid but a gorgeous scent.” The priest allowed her to spray a little on his wrist. She held his hand, felt the beat of his pulse. Her own heart rate increased.
He put his wrist to his nose. “I like that.”
“I’m sure your sister will as well.”
He paid then made affable small talk while Anita wrapped the perfume. She was nervous.
“What…What church do you run?” she asked.
“Run? Oh, no, I’m not employed as a parish priest at the moment. I have other duties, but I am affiliated to St Cyprian’s, in Marylebone Road. Why do you ask?”
“I need to talk to someone…” Her words dragged in the night.
The priest was suddenly serious. The kindness in his eyes made Anita want to cry.
“Of course. Can you come to St Cyprian’s tomorrow night? There’s an early evening jazz concert, so probably best if you don’t get there until it’s over, say eight-thirty.”
“Thank you,” said Anita and watched him leave the shop.
She walked along Baker Street, past restaurants and bars and night-closed shops, shivering though she was bundled into the thickest jumper and warmest coat she could find.
Alleyway.
And life. Hidden in the stinking, icy shadows, a small, warm bundle of blood and flesh, scurrying, heedless and consumed by its hungers. Anita stopped and took a faltering step into the dark.
She dropped into a crouch. There it was, jammed between two swollen and packed bin bags, gnawing at the plastic covered cornucopias.
The taking was all instinct. Suddenly the rat was in her gloved right hand, a squirming shrieking bundle of flesh and animal soul. Anita growled contentedly then sank her teeth into the warm fur of its back. Flesh parted and blood squirted hotly into her mouth. Anita’s trembling stopped.
The priest was chatting to the jazz roadies as they packed lights and amps. He glanced round, dazzled Anita with his smile and beckoned her to follow him.
He led the way through a maze of low-ceilinged, dim-lit passageways to an office.
Anita sat down, made awkward by the priest’s proximity. He poured coffee from a pot on a small corner table. Anita politely refused. She didn’t want caffeine, she wanted redemption.
The priest perched himself on the desk. There was no barrier between them.
“Take your time.” he said. “Find the words.”
“I don’t think I have a soul,” Anita said.
The priest leaned forward. He frowned, but there was no scepticism in the expression.
“What makes you say that Anita?”
“I…I’m a monster. I’m not human.”
“What are you then?”
Suddenly she couldn’t speak. Darkness reared inside her. This was a priest, the enemy -
No, he was the first good man she had met.
“I’m a flesh eater, a murderer.”
“Who have you murdered?”
“The homeless, the lost, people who wouldn't be missed, people who are missed. When I’m hungry I can’t stop myself.”
The priest reached out, suddenly and grabbed her hand. “Is this the truth Anita?”
She nodded. “I made a bargain…I was lonely, depressed. It was my face…I had a birthmark, a huge wine stain. I went to a séance with a colleague. Something whispered to me and asked what I wanted most in the world.”
“But there was a price.”
“I didn’t understand, I was young. Now I want it to stop.”
“God wants it to stop as well." the priest held her hands tightly. “Do you know what I am?”
Anita shook her head.
“An exorcist. I can cast this thing out of you. Do you want me to do that?”
“Yes.”
“It will be terrible but it will be gone.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ve been looking for you Anita. I didn’t come into that shop by accident. God led me to you. We know about your crimes, the police are not interested, just more deaths in the shadows. But the church, we recognised what was happening.”
Anita gripped his hands now. She wanted him to hold her. The priest smiled gently, stood and went to his desk, back turned.
“I’m going to free you. Do you trust me Anita?”
“I trust you.” she said.
“God help me” he groaned.
Then spun round, wooden stake gripped in both hands.
There was pain, and searing, searing grief. His blood was hot in Anita’s mouth. His death, ice in whatever she had for a soul. In the final moment he was clumsy and she was ready, because she had known the moment she first saw him; hunter recognising hunter.
He had wept as he came for her. As she wept now.