RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW

Their dirty weekend away began as these things usually do – flirting around the office water cooler on Monday led quickly to a rendezvous in the stairwell and finally frantic packing on Friday evening for a night trip out of the city.  Occasional gusts of rain and Harry’s pawing hands were the only distractions on the drive into the country.  Jill had batted his efforts aside, coolly informing Harry that patience was a virtue.  But Harry thought the gleam in her eyes told another story, one that would surely see its culmination tonight.

Whatever plans Harry thought Jill may’ve had lurking within that sleek head of hers were thwarted by Ms. Winchel, owner of The Sparrows B&B.  Clearly annoyed at being turned out of bed at the late hour, Ms. Winchel, she of the horn-rimmed glasses and disapproving glare, was clearly outraged at the prospect of two obviously unmarried adults cavorting within her premises.  While Jill had cooed at the two lovebirds caged in the entrance, Ms. Winchel had marshalled her forces in an attempt to thwart Harry’s request for a single room.  Only with the aid of several crisp bank notes did Harry only barely manage to negotiate a single room for them.  Lips puckered in disgust, Ms. Winchel had thumped the key onto the table in front of him and bid them a curt good night.  Taking their cue, the couple hurried up to their room, leaving Ms. Winchel to fulminate against the gross excesses of the young. 

					 
They quickly discovered that what they had hoped would be a room with a double bed turned out to be a renovated cupboard with one single narrow bed fit only for a monk.  Harry was all for confronting the old harridan, but Jill, in between fits of giggling, pleaded with him not to.  

‘Let’s just enjoy the weekend, Harry,’ she said.  ‘After all, we may just find the opportunity in the most unlikely of places.’  

And so it turned out.  While leafing through a local tourist brochure at a cold and silent breakfast table, Jill nudged Harry and pointed towards the picture of a quaint looking cottage set amongst a wood.  As Ms. Winchel served out the porridge (which would turn out to be as sour and thin as she was) Jill asked her about it.

‘Aye, that’s the old Baker’s cottage, left over from when the mill was located on Hoath Island.’  She sniffed.  ‘Mr. Hennessy spends altogether too much time over there, patching and mending.  He’s neglectful of his wife, if you ask me.  Not like my Henry.  He helped out with maintenance up there for quite a good while.  Such a good man with his hands.’  She sniffed and turned her head away. 

‘Oh, is Mr. Winchel about?’ Harry asked.  Ms. Winchel fixed him with a withering glare.

‘Mr. Winchel is dead, young man.’

Harry and Jill quickly excused themselves and hurried upstairs to get ready for the walk to the cottage.

Exiting their room, Harry saw Ms. Winchel opening the door opposite.  Astounded to see her on the verge of tears, he began to ask her what the matter was, but she simply banged the door in his face.  All sense of charity faded and he stormed down the corridor, with Jill hurrying after.
 
In the front room, while Jill fussed with her hair, Harry walked up to the cage, which was half covered by a cloth.  Seeing movement, he lifted away the covering.  

The bird sat alone on its swing, spattered with blood.  Large red drops covered the paper at the bottom of the cage, surrounding a larger stain at the centre.  Harry pursed his lips and made a kissing noise.  The bird swivelled its head, then launched itself at him, battering against the bars of the cage in mindless fury.  Upstairs, a door slammed, and Harry grabbed Jill’s hand and hurried outside.  He felt suddenly unsure of himself.

The high street revealed several quaint brick buildings filled with dusty shopkeepers and wholly useless knick knacks.  Inspecting a battered cuckoo clock, Harry felt the beginnings of an ache within his chest.  He briefly thought that Ms. Winchel had poisoned him, before putting it down to Jill’s close proximity, particularly the exotic musk of her scent.  They walked out hand in hand.

On the empty street, Harry placed his hand around Jill’s waist, then, after a moment, let it slip lower.  When Jill didn’t complain and pointed towards the bridge, he felt his pulse quicken.  It soared when she leaned in and put her lips to his ear.

‘Perhaps over there you can do more than lay hands?’  Her warm breath tickled his ear.  Grinning, they hurried across the road.  The bridge, a narrow, cobbled affair, spanned a narrow bend in the river.  Looking over the edge, the ache in Harry’s chest grew as he contemplated his distorted image.  

‘Come on if you’re coming,’ Jill said, laughing.  Briefly, horribly, Harry wanted to hit that smiling face.  The idea shook him, but he put it down impatience.  Fixing a smile on his face, Harry crossed the bridge.
		
Once they were on the island, the trees closed in.  Overhead, he glimpsed dark clouds gathering. The distant mutter of traffic drifted across the bridge. Pausing, Harry rested his hand on the rough bark of a soaring oak, relishing the view.  Jill slipped away, her laugh a gentle caress in the humid air. Despite the pain in his chest, a sense of satisfaction settled over Harry.

A pair of butterflies, mottled in orange and black, fluttered passed. One swooped on the other, driving it to the ground.  Their bodies tumbled over the leaf strewn earth until one staggered away, limply trailing a broken wing. Its partner lifted into the air, caught the breeze and was gone.

A little stunned, Harry glimpsed movement on the river.  A pair of black swans, graceful necks bent, angled purposefully towards each other. In the distance, there was the sudden crunch of metal on metal.  A horn’s long, sonorous drone filled the air.

						
‘Bloody fool.’ Irritation threatened to sour his good mood. Ahead, the butterfly floated in front of Jill.  She giggled, that horrid little noise which so often drove him to distraction at work.  The butterfly flung itself at her and her giggle shattered into a tiny shriek.  Jill smashed the creature between her hands and watched it drop to the ground.  The look on her face was one of feral satisfaction.  Walking up, Harry saw her grind the butterfly into the earth with her heel.

Rage and fear rippled across her face, and her eyes seemed distant, vague.  Her body shook and she glared at Harry, jerking her hand up the path.  

‘The cottage must be through here,’ she said, giving her boot a final twist.
 
They hurried along, stepping over a line of boiling ants which crossed the trail.  Harry’s first thought was that they were fighting each other, but saw that the line coalesced around a small, furry mound.  While Jill marched on, Harry stooped for a closer look.  With a grunt of disgust, he saw the jerking form of a rabbit, carpeted by ants.  It convulsed, sending its tormentors scurrying in all directions.  Then it stilled and the ants resumed methodically picking at its body.  

To his great relief, a spatter of rain forced him on, past a mass of sickly looking spiky weeds driven about by the stiffening breeze.  A blast of wind drove the nearest plant against him and he snatched his hand away, cursing.  Disbelieving, he gazed at the long thin scratch across the top of his hand, blood beading at several points.  He swore angrily then sucked at the wound.  The taste of blood sparked something in him, something hungry.
Jill called out to him.  Looking up, he saw her waving from the top of the trail and his growing anger was replaced with a hot, urgent lust.  Bulling his way through the undergrowth, Harry emerged into a small clearing.  A tumbledown cottage stood to one side. Harry rubbed absently at his chest, wondering why the taste of blood in his mouth felt so good.  

Intently studying a plaque fixed to the wall, Jill stood in an open doorway.  A vision of her screaming filled his mind.  At his approach, she smiled and he felt the blood surging through his veins.  Grabbing her roughly, Harry pushed her inside.  

Under the tattered thatched roof, several poorly maintained items of furniture littered the earthen floor.  No doubt the handiwork of the local historical society, the same types, Harry savagely thought, who frowned on unmarried couples cavorting in the local B&B.

‘Bugger them,’ he muttered, advancing into the room.  Jill stood against the far wall, peering through a shuttered window. 

‘Oh look,’ she said, baring her teeth and pointing. Harry turned his head, noting absently how her mouth was more rictus than smile. She laughed, a harsh braying sound matching the tension in her face.

He approached, conscious of the heat pouring off her body.  Through the weathered shutters, he saw the swans circling one another. There was a distant rumble of thunder, followed by...was that another crash? And screaming? The swans drew closer, necks 
						
entwined. A crackle broke over the roof, followed by a flash that blanched the landscape. When his dazzled eyes cleared, Harry could see a swan lying broken in the water, its neck trailing behind the drifting body. The other swan darted towards another pair floating off the far bank.

Heart racing, Harry felt Jill’s arms circle his waist. They kissed urgently, tearing at each others clothes.  The metal taste of blood filled his mouth again and the sense of rage returned with it.  Squeezing roughly, he pressed her closer.  Jill responded in kind, her eyes suddenly rage filled slits.  Growling, she snapped her teeth at him.  Spittle, hot and sticky, drenched his cheek.
					
The storm broke and the world outside descended into a roaring confusion of rain and thunder. Harry’s hands tightened on Jill’s gobbling throat as she dug her fingernails into his eyes. One more crash, then the world turned red and red and red.