by Stacey Mewse
Having dialed the number he sat with his elbow propped on the van door and listened half to the repetitive ringing on the line, and half to his music. His free hand poised over the volume button on the stereo ready to turn it down when they answered.
Only no answer was forthcoming. The first time he tried it rang off, and the second time the tone suggested he had been cut off intentionally.
With an agitated sigh he clambered out of the van and made his way up the driveway, his feet crunching loudly on the gravel. He flickered his gaze over the grounds and pulled a face at the amount of work that needed doing… He didn’t know why they didn’t just contract him to visit more often. It would cost them less if they just consented, as he worked on an hourly rate; but they just would not agree to it no matter how much gentle pressure he applied.
Shaking his head he reached the doorstep and tried unsuccessfully to peer through the curtained door side windows. Unable to see anything he pressed the old brass doorbell and stepped back to wait for an answer. Shortly he heard the faint shuffle of slipper encased feet making their way to towards him, his sensitive ears picking up sounds that others would never have been able to detect.
Straightening up he smiled broadly as the door creaked open before him, the little old lady who stood behind it peering up at him through thick glasses returned his smile warmly. She swung the door open and stepped back to allow him passage into the house with a beckoning hand gesture. Her voice was slightly husky with age as she greeted him
‘Oh Hunter, is it that time already? Come in, come in! Shall we have a cup of tea before you get started?’
Hunter stepped into the hallway and gently closed the door behind him. ‘That would be lovely Mrs. Fitch. You know you had me worried there for a second, I tried to call you twice and couldn’t reach you.’ He was grateful for the offer of tea before work but he had been on edge when he had not received an answer to his calls, and it would take a moment for that feeling to subside. Both of the Fitch’s were in their eighties and he could not help but worry for their safety in such a large home.
Mrs. Fitch shook her head and led Hunter down the hallway, again beckoning that he should follow with one twisted arthritic finger. ‘You’ve no reason for concern, we’re both just fine.’ She tutted ‘just because we’re old it doesn’t mean we’re daft you know!’
Hunter chuckled as she continued on with her explanation ‘No, there was just a horrible story on the news that caught our attention, and you know what Harold is like… He cut the phone off because it was irritating him while he was trying to listen.’
Hunter nodded ‘the main thing is that there’s nothing wrong, and I quite sympathize with him as I’m not a fan of telephones myself really.’
Mrs. Fitch rolled her eyes at him as they entered the kitchen where her husband was seated at the breakfast bar. ‘Did you hear that Harold?’ She called.
Harold spun around in his seat and screwed up his face in confusion. ‘What?!’
She shook her head and tapped at her ear ‘Turn your hearing aid up you old coot!’ She instructed.
Harold fiddled momentarily with the device behind his ear before responding ‘Well that wasn’t very polite was it Mrs.?’
Mrs. Fitch laughed ‘it just irritates me having to repeat myself Harold! I said… Did you hear that?’
Harold shook his head ‘Hear what?’
‘Hunter here’ she gestured as she spoke ‘agrees with you about telephones.’
Harold beamed at the apparently younger man before him. ‘Well its good to hear that some of the younger generation have some sense! Horrible things aren’t they, noisy little intruders into your privacy. I like peace and quiet you know, if you want to talk to somebody you should pop round for a cup of tea and a chinwag; that’s my opinion.’
Hunter nodded ‘my sentiments exactly Mr. Fitch.’
‘How many times must I ask you to call me Harold?’ Came the reply, before the elderly man turned his attentions back to his wife. ‘Anne did I hear you mention more tea? I’m sure I did…’ He winked at her with a crooked, cheeky smile.
Mrs. Fitch tutted and shuffled to the sink to fill the kettle, placing it on the cooker top to boil she chuckled quietly. ‘There, are you happy now bossy boots? I was actually offering it to our lovely young handyman here but seeing as I’ve already put the kettle on to boil I suppose I can make you another cup.’
Harold nodded in approval ‘Oh good, I do like a nice cup of tea or two in the morning!’ He looked over to Hunter and gestured to the chair next to him. “Come and take a seat young man, you’re making me nervous lurking in the doorway like that! Did you see the news this morning?’
Hunter shook his head and gratefully took the seat that was offered to him, his aching body thankful for the brief rest. ‘Not yet sir, I haven’t had the chance, though Mrs. Fitch tells me it was not a very pleasant story?’
Anne opened her mouth to respond when the kettle started whistling, and turned to make the tea while her husband explained.
Harold grimaced ‘It was rather horrible, I’ll see if I can find a report on it for you.’ He picked up the remote, which had lain rested on a folded newspaper before him and flicked on the television. Hunter visibly winced at the volume of the voices that blared out of the speakers; they had obviously been watching it with their hearing aids turned down.
Harold fumbled with the remote to turn the sound down and flicked through the channels before giving up and turning it back off. ‘Never mind’ He turned to face the younger man just as two cups of steaming tea were set down before them. ‘There’s no substitute for a nice long chat anyhow.’
Hunter smiled and vaguely registered Mrs. Fitch taking a seat opposite them and settling down to listen to them talk.
Harold picked up his cup and gently blew on the boiling liquid, taking a tentative sip and smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘My my that’s good tea Anne’ he winked at his wife who rolled her eyes in response ‘you do make a sterling cuppa.’
Hunters own cup was cradled in his large, work haggard hands as he nodded in agreement and listened to Harold continue.
‘Well according to the local news there have been some rather unpleasant dealings going on all over the country, for the past six months or so now… The acts themselves are dotted about, three murders occurred in and around Liverpool, two on the border of wales somewhere, one not far from Cambridge and others near Bournemouth, Essex and Derbyshire. All in all there have been seventeen murders. At first they were all thought to be separate as they have all been so far apart, but they are all committed in the same fashion. The police are in a panic nationwide, they have a serial killer on the loose who has no apparent ‘zone’ of preference. They’re calling him the wanderer.’
Hunter took a long sip of tea before responding. ‘That’s awful Harold… But how do they know it’s a man, and how does this affect our area?’
Harold set down his own cup and stared into Hunters eyes as he spoke, he had been an officer in the military many moons before and it was one of the quirks he had picked up in service. ‘Most serial murderers are men, there just seems to be something murderous in the base nature of being male… The more brutal murders are almost always committed by men… Besides which the nature of the crimes proves him to be male, and to further narrow it down he has left a note on the body of every one of his victims detailing how much he enjoyed their company. He signs each one with the moniker ‘sir suture.’’
Hunters brows knitted into a confused frown ‘suture … I’ve heard that before somewhere… What does it mean? I’m sure I know, but my brain just isn’t giving me the information.’
Harold looked deep into the depths of his empty teacup as he responded. ‘The police have done their best to cover up the more grisly details… But as it always is nowadays, certain facts have leaked onto the internet, and reporters are broadcasting them with the sickening relish of the money hungry vultures they are. It relates to the manner in which he leaves
his victims… He stitches up the parts that he as had his way with… The man is an animal. I hope they bring back the noose just for him, I can think of nobody who deserves to be hung more!’
Hunter tried not to think about the details of what he had just been told. It was beyond barbaric. Finishing his tea he nodded and smiled his thanks at Mrs. Fitch before repeating his earlier question. ‘How has this all ended up in our local news?’ He suspected that he did not want to know the answer but morbid curiosity forced his tongue.
Harold sighed sadly ‘The latest victim was a young girl in a town not ten miles from here, she was barely out of her teens…’
Hunter’s eyes widened ‘My god that’s awful Harold, her family must be distraught.’
Harold shook his head ‘the poor thing had jut got out of the care system. Her parents, so it was reported, had died in a car crash when she was tiny… What a sad end to such a tragic, short life.’
Hunter nodded ‘I suppose they will impose a curfew to try and prevent further incidents?’
Mr. Fitch shrugged ‘They can suggest one but you can’t make people listen, I have a bad feeling this beast is going to kill again before he is caught…’
Out of the corner of his eye Hunter noticed Mrs. Fitch checking her wristwatch and pushed back his seat to stand. ‘Lets hope not Mr. Fitch, we need to have some faith in the justice system. I’d like to stay and chat longer but I should probably start on those gutters of yours before lunch time!’ He chuckled as good naturedly as he could manage with images of murder and mutilation swimming around in his head.
Harold nodded ‘I suppose you’re right, you’d better get to work.’
Mrs. Fitch stood and made her way into the hallway, calling over her shoulder ‘I’ll see you out then Hunter.’
He followed her to the door and swooped down to kiss the back of her hand ‘I shall complete my tasks and be back in your fine company by mid day m’lady’ he winked.
Mrs. Fitch ushered him out of the door with a girlish giggle ‘you young scoundrel! You’ll get me into trouble with Harold; he’s the jealous type you know. Now be on your way you cheeky young man!’
Hunter could not help but smile at the mirth that filled the old woman’s eyes even as she pushed him out of the door and gently closed it behind him.
Chapter 5
Thanks to the strenuous nature of his work, Hunter’s morning passed by relatively quickly. He had the gutters cleared by ten and the grounds mown by half eleven.
Sweating profusely he hopped down from the ride on lawnmower having parked it carefully back in the garage, and walked slowly back up to the house. He wiped his sweat soaked palms on the thighs of his jeans before ringing the bell. Hitching up his already damp t-shirt to rub the beads of perspiration from his brow.
Mrs. Fitch answered the door just in time to see him lowering the garment back over his toned stomach, and gasped at the sight of him dripping all over her front doorstep. ‘Goodness Hunter you’re a tad grubby!’ She exclaimed ‘wait there and I’ll go and fetch your payment. You’ll be wanting to head home and change before your next job!’
Hunter begrudgingly agreed and waited patiently for his elderly client to return with his pay packet… When would he learn to pack a spare t-shirt in his van?! Before he knew it Anne was back and holding out a little brown envelope for him, handing it over in such a way as to ensure that he had absolutely no chance of accidently touching her with his sweaty fingers.
Smiling broadly he turned away and waved politely back as he walked towards his van. ‘Thank you Mrs. Fitch’ he called ‘if you need anything else don’t hesitate to give me a call.’
She waved back as he climbed into the driving seat, shouting out just as he closed the door ‘I will. Lord knows Harold wont!’
Hunter chuckled to himself at that, she was probably right. Harold would rather write a letter than dial a number. It was an attitude he empathized with but sadly not one he could realistically adhere to in that day and age.
As he turned the key in the ignition he counted his lucky stars that the livery yard he was due at next was on the outskirts of the village. Luckily in the direction of his cabin; and that he was running ahead of schedule.
Against his better judgment he drove faster than he should have on the way home, and was back there in fifteen minutes. He dashed up the garden path and rushed to unlock the door and get back inside. He jogged to the bathroom, where he tore off his t-shirt and quickly scrubbed at himself with a soapy flannel over the sink. The cool water felt wonderful on his tacky skin, but he had no time to savor it and hurriedly rubbed himself dry with the same towel he had used earlier that morning.
He paced into his room and took two more t-shirts from the drawers next to his bed. One he threw over his head and the other he tucked under his arm and carried back out to the van; both were black as were all his work t-shirts.
On his way out of the door his gaze was drawn to a white square of paper rested on the floor just inside the door. Stooping to pick it up he held it under his nose to get a better look at it, it was a small piece of thick writing paper with a note scrawled across it in black ink. It read ‘Mr. Dalton I dropped by but you were unavailable. I shall call by again tomorrow if I do not catch up with you today.’ It was signed with a single kiss and written in handwriting he was not familiar with. He sniffed delicately at it and sneezed abruptly, it had been liberally doused in a sickly sweet perfume, and he had no hope of identifying any underlying traces of natural scent.
Popping it into his jeans pocket he hopped back into the van and made his way back towards the village. He guessed it was from a possible new client; after all it was common knowledge that he never carried his phone with him. His mind was too full of what Mr. Fitch had discussed with him that morning for him to be able to give the matter any serious thought. Besides which he had his next job to worry about. He hated working at the livery yard but as he worked hard they always called him whenever they had a problem that needed fixing.
Ever since that first change, prey and predatory animals alike had been wary of him, and horses were about as bad as it got. After his first job at the yard he had been forced to request that the animals be kept stabled whilst he was working. The smell of him whipped them up into a frenzy, and the scent of their terror drove him to distraction. It drew out the wolf in him to the point that he had to focus half his energy on keeping it contained. During working on the first job he had done for them, the horses in the fields had stampeded around the edges of their paddocks and one poor girl had been dragged off her feet by a stallion that had charged at him. She had been attempting to lead it out of the field when it had lunged at him with its nostrils flaring, galloping towards him and dragging her in its wake. He had had to jump the fence and shelter behind it as other stable hands ran across the fields to try and help their coworker. She was lucky not to have been trampled…
Hunter grimaced at the memory as he pulled up in the yard parking area and grabbed his toolbox out of the back of the van. Slamming shut the rusted old doors he strutted, possibly slightly over-confidently to the office building and knocked loudly on the door.
It was answered almost immediately by a short woman dressed in jodhpurs and a polo shirt whom he knew to be one of the riding instructors. Her name was Gemma and she had never been a great fan of his, which he felt was at least in part thanks to her sexuality. One of the small irritations he had noticed in his life as he had aged was that lesbians always seemed to detest him. He was not sexist in the slightest and was never vulgar, and yet they still all seemed to hate him. He half suspected it was something to do with the way straight women practically fell at his feet; he guessed it must irk them. A chauvinistic train of thought to be sure, but he could think of no better explanation.
Either way he was confronted by a very agitated woman who refused to move to allow him passage into the building. With an exasperated sigh he looked down at her and huffed ‘can I come in please Gemma, I need to talk to Lucy
.’
She shook her head almost gleefully ‘no, I’m afraid not as she’s not here. She told me to send you straight out to fix the fencing.’
Hunter stopped in his tracks and stepped back to get a better view of the woman he was talking to, noting bitterly the humor dancing behind her dark brown eyes at her denying his entry… Oh what an ironic metaphor that was! ‘That’s unusual, she’s always here’ his eyebrows raised in worry ‘is she alright?’
Gemma practically sneered her response. ‘She’s fine. Is your concern for her or for your possible loss of a bed-warmer Mr. Dalton?’
Hunter’s face darkened ‘I’ve never slept with Lucy, not that I can see its any of your business. It just seems strange that she’s not in on a weekday. Where is she?’