We left the building for the path, hemmed in by a wall of native foliage. I lagged behind Hugo and Aunt Bea, dazed by the whirlwind engulfing my life. Suddenly, an arm shot through leaves from the other side of the hedge, shackling my wrist and dragging me through. I yelped in surprise as I disappeared via a lattice of vicious, scratchy twigs. My captor clamped a hand roughly over my mouth and shoved a stun gun hard into my ribs, triggering the charge.
The deviate’s body was tight against mine and I didn’t appreciate his groin butting the small of my back. I fought and wriggled, smashing the stone mermaid where I estimated the attacker’s nose to be. He yelled as I hit my mark, bone splintering beneath the force. I knew I’d broken some of my fingers along with his face, as agony streaked the nerves of my knuckles.
He punched my side repeatedly, winding me with the stun gun. Yet, despite the savage pain, the voltage didn’t have much impact. The plastic parts of the stun gun crackled and bubbled, melting to the skin of the kidnapper’s hand. A sizzling bolt ricocheted up his arm and over his whole body. He bellowed and released me, a shadow contorting in pain, and tried in vain to shake the molten blob from his fingers. I cradled my middle and battled to draw a breath, watching in mute horror. Swearing and stumbling over tree roots, he wore a balaclava and dark clothing perfect for an ambush.
Then Hugo barged between us. He lifted the man from his feet, and with one mighty rend, snapped his neck. I would never forget that crunch as long as I lived. My attacker slumped to the judge’s flattened garden and Hugo spat on his limp form with a fierce growl of hatred.
“Reap what you’ve sown in the Devil’s embrace. Enjoy the infernal underworld, rancid grub.”
The whole episode took seconds, but time always slows for the worst events. A wail built from deep in my bursting chest. One minute I was walking along in my own safe, little world, the next, I was mugged and a witness to murder. It felt like I’d been tipped upside down. Bea materialised behind us. She was hardly taken aback by the dead stranger at her feet, not even wasting a prolonged glance. The night air filled with the pungent liquorice odour of crushed plants.
“Anathema? So soon,” she said.
Buried somewhere in my mind, I’d heard Seth mention that name. But I was too busy trying not to vomit to care. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at the corpse.
“This scourge on our doorstep is no coincidence. Did you do this, Hugo?” Bea’s eyes narrowed in the gloom.
Of course he did. Who else could have done it? I was incapable of snapping a green twig, let alone someone’s vertebrae.
“He killed him,” I stuttered and shook. “He killed him!”
The two of them ignored me. Not a speck of what they said made sense, as Hugo offered my aunt an explanation.
“I did not lead him here. He is a scout, yes. But the rule is never to engage a prime target, once found. I think he’s gone rogue. Anathema will be rudderless without their priestess. It is not ideal, but could be far worse. He is here for someone else. I am sure this was merely a crime of opportunity, Beatrice.” Hugo spoke as though describing the weather. Had he even broken a sweat?
“A most unfortunate mere opportunity,” Bea said. “I have never been a fan of coincidence.” She pivoted to me and clutched my shoulders. “You must touch him, Winsome.”
“Pardon?” I croaked.
“Like this.” She placed two fingers on her forehead between her eyes, kneeling to reef the mask off. I battled to look anywhere but at his exposed face.
“He’s dead!” My heart jumped spastically between my ribs. “I am not touching him.”
“You must do as I say. Touch him, before we are caught out here.”
Dazed and sickened, I kept the dead man in my peripheral vision and bent to do as I was told. I could not avoid a glimpse of his limp hand, a scorpion tattoo prominent between his thumb and forefinger. The skin of his face was still warm and I fought to keep down my canapés. Was she ensuring my fingerprints were printable, so I took the blame? I could not believe this of her and felt ashamed for even entertaining the idea.
“Excellent. Come along, Winsome. We must get you home and into a bath before the shock sets in.”
I considered pointing out how far beyond shock I’d gone, but my lips refused to cooperate. Hugo picked me up and I was too stunned to object. We would all go to jail: one for homicide and two for aiding and abetting. Could I complete a Genetics degree in prison? My mind veered wildly from one inane topic to the next. Our lives were ruined. Should we concoct some sort of cover up? Conspiracies never succeeded on TV.
“The police will come. What are we going to tell them?” I asked.
“Trust me, Winnie.” Bea’s tone was the gentle one she used when I had a fever as a child. “It will be fine. I know it doesn’t seem so, but there will be no repercussions. Hugo has saved your life, and more besides, from an evil man. We should be extremely grateful.”
Gratitude was not amongst the emotions pinballing my insides. What conflicted, crazy, blasé message was Bea sending me here? Where was the sanctity of life, ‘do unto others’, ‘love thy neighbour’, ‘burn in hell for this sin’ outrage?
Sure, my rib axed when I tried to inhale. My fingers throbbed. I had scratches and bruises to rival a boxer, and I was frightened and utterly ignorant as to the reason for the weirdness throttling my days like red algae. But one overriding thought kept intruding: Aunt Bea had sanctioned murder. My Aunt Bea!
