Night Of The Opfer

Richard Moult - Banais (Lady of the Wedding)
Night Of The Opfer

Her opfer was dead and she took advantage of her night seclusion to mutilate his body, stabbing at his eyes with her hand-crafted Puma knife before castrating him in a symbolic act and stuffing his mouth with her severed trophies. She had enticed him there, having hunted him down in a far more unemotional way than he had hunted, and raped, his female victims over a period of some years, and – there – in that clearing in a copse in the hills of South Shropshire she left his body for wild animals, and Ravens, to do with it what instinctively they were wont to – and fittingly would – do.

Melusine was waiting for her when, some hours later, she returned to the cottage they shared near where the River Teme wound its slow and ancient rural way toward the town of Ludlow. No words between them were needed and they left the files strewn upon the kitchen tables to wend their way toward a bath to cleanse her of the blood and then to the bedroom that they for several years had shared. Tomorrow, tomorrow, there would be time enough to peruse those files again to choose another victim; files supplied by a male law enforcement friend who – beguiled by, in love with, and a lover of – Melusine so willingly kept them informed.

Dawn with its Summer warmth and early light found her languidly naked and she kissed her sleeping lover before – as a ballet dancer might – she gracefully descended the stairs. There was Champagne to open, a full flute to raise in honour and memory of her deed, and she settled down to read those files, remembering. Yes, always remembering her own young so innocent sister who so many years ago had been brutally raped and murdered.

He had laughed when she had found him, certain as he was of his strength. For she was only a slip of a young woman knocking angrily on the door of his council flat in that London borough. But he did not see the seven round two-and-half inch barrel stainless steel revolver she hid behind her back, and he, intent again on rape, was about to grab her by the throat when she shot him in the face and then – as he lay twitching and bloodied on the ground – twice in the head. She smiled, then, for he had fancied himself a modern urban predator, his flat home to posters of lurid horror films and a small bookshelf containing works by Nietzsche, de Sade, and a well-thumbed paperback copy of The Satanic Bible. He even had the phrase “Satan represents indulgence” tattooed on his chest.

But there he lay, dead; conquered by a mere slip of a young woman. For her inner darkness was more dark and deadly than he or his Homo Hubris kind could ever conceive, except perhaps in such a sleeping nightmare as would wake them, sweating, having had them kicking their night-time coverings away as they sought to but were unable to flee from some loathsome if unseen terror.

So she that bright Summer morning once again washed her throat with champagne, believing as she did in her right to hunt down and cull any such male mundane.

127 yf