Chapter 5

Porton Down

Father Bennett combed a small, chewy lump of porridge free from his beard with his long yet carefully manicured nails before taking his eye off the road to look in the rear view mirror, checking his facial hair for any further particles of his hastily consumed breakfast that may have strayed to mar his formal appearance. He'd risen, as was his habit, at 4:30 sharp and following his ablutions, oats and prayer, left his modest detached house on the outskirts of Launceston early to avoid the traffic. The black jaguar he drove was as pristine as he liked his appearance to be and the white dusty remnants of the clot he freed irked him somewhat speckling the cars upholstered floor two inches from the mat beneath the pedals. He carried a cordless vacuum in his trunk and made a mental note to extract the offending oat dust when he next stopped.

The recent weather had been miserably wet so today's cloudless sky found him feeling buoyant and holy. He had to suppress o smile as the first rays of morning sun up gently lanced through his windscreen by plucking a half dozen pubic hairs from his groin area. Life in the service of his god required a constant humility and whilst marvelling at his creation in all its glories was commendable a mumbled prayer was the appropriate response not an indulgent smile. Cutting away his trouser pockets allowed his hands the freedom to make such discreet depilatory inflictions of minor pain to return the mind away from such trivial pleasures as the enjoyment of a sunrise and back to his mission of freeing the world of satanic and demonic eruptions. He'd learned the trick from a highly respected priest he'd studied his craft under. Witchfynding was a specialist branch of the church and its chosen crusaders. Selection for boys with an aptitude for the vigilant requirements it took to see the devil in a man or woman whose misfortune it was to harbour demonic tendencies took place at a young age. His years under father Erasmus were proud and fond memories for Bennett. The day he was woken from his bed, no older than five to begin his induction into the select order by the priest saw his life begin a journey he now relished. Indeed those early years were spent in rectal agony and confusion yet once ordained as a junior Witchfynder and now old enough and able to select out boys for his Fathers pleasure rendered his years of pious suffering worthwhile. The open pocket trick inevitably could find the devil take his hand for earthly pleasure but large bald islands in his sea of pubic bristle were evidence of a holy adherence to his sanctity.

The drive to Porton Down and his appointment to meet the government biologists would take a couple of hours. He was once more on a mission from god. This was a chance to study live demons, or certainly parts there of, first hand. He'd cast out many in his career but mostly they were gone once his work was successfully completed. Sometimes mucus or slimy ectoplasm was left behind on his hands and the bodies of those he'd saved. Yet physically accessible specimens were extremely rare. Demonic possession was not entirely a fate suffered by humans though animal examples were extremely rare. But not two years had passed since he'd recognised the mark of the dark lord in his next door neighbours rabbit. It's extraction was a prolonged affair taking several days in his basement though the hours of work were interspersed with time he spent recuperating in his living room. Natalie next door was quite baffled and kept calling out for 'Snuffles' late into the summer evenings before the poor child was taken to bed by her parents. He'd recently begun to notice her small breasts develop and had prayed on many a night that the demon had not jumped ship, as they were prone to do. Exorcising her might well cause more alarm than a missing herbivore.

His small band of Witchfynders were well tutored in the historic occurrences of the particular demon flesh hybrids that had been summoned to destroy Noah, the spacecraft created by the billionaire entrepreneur Rupert Bunsen. But not a single one had been seen in his time nor decades before. If what the prime minister and his small cabal of advisers and senior ministers were saying was true, some of the body parts thrown out of the sea onto police and customs watercraft that had raced to the oddball billionaires rescue had been collected and taken in great secrecy to the Porton Down laboratories. Such was the size of the explosion that had ripped open the spaceship's bulk and the pummelling density of the shoal of conger eel demon hybrids that hungrily entered the opening to greedily eat its occupants that eel and human chunks had littered the surrounding waters. Some were collected for burial and cremation by the families of the unfortunate passengers and others selected for Porton Downs scientists to study. But science alone was not enough to learn from these body parts. It would take experts of another kind. The excitement in the thought of seeing with his own eyes these ungodly creatures remains found his jaguar breaking past the speed limit. Any police officer, once radioing to his superiors, would undoubtedly defer to authority and let him on his way though the inconvenience and the time lost if pulled over was to be avoided. He was to pick up a lower ranked Witchfynder at the Mac Donald's in the services near Yeovil. Brother Tobin could be an irritant with his jovial demeanour, frequent use of social media and undignified shoulder length hair though he was studious and diligent in his Witchfynding. He would need support if this group of Shamans and Witches were to be exorcised and destroyed. And Yeovil was still an hour or more away.

As the jaguar made its steady path down the a303, an A road? Yes, but a road that carried more traffic than some motorways. Bennett allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of the roadworks that would destroy all buried vestiges of paganism around Stonehenge. Back in the 1980s as a child he recalled how the new age pagans that emerged, taking to the road in raggle taggle vans seeking a life outside the mainstream. Most embracing new age beliefs of a strange and no doubt satanic nature. They were long ago crushed by the more conventional soldiers of the establishment bar small pockets that held on. It was said by the government officials that he had spoken to that the shamans and witches he was commissioned to track down and destroy found sanctuary on such sites. Of particular offence was the individual who claimed to be Christ, and the few who he now hunted believed him to be just that. The two ringleaders that were his closest confidants, self appointed shamans Skree and Lipton completed the three central targets of Bennett's holy mission. It was understood that these three had commissioned the Witches to summon these demons from the deep. P

Just as he was beginning to grow bored and fearful of distraction at the thought of the mundane journey ahead he saw a poor child, a girl of some 19 years at his estimate, stood hitchhiking at the road side maybe 200 yards ahead. Surely she must be aware of the dangers of dodgy men. Those who had never stepped within a church. Still at an age where influence and experience could colour the person she would become. Ironically she wore the fashion of the very soiled urchins that formed the New Age traveller movement that had caused the pagan problematic situation in the early 80s at Stonehenge. Her vulnerability drew him to pull over lest she fall foul of a vehicle of hippies that might steer her life away from the good lords path. As he came to a stop by the girl he saw beneath her embroidered jacket a cheesecloth blouse and beneath that the two proud buttons of her nipples the morning chill had given life to. Perhaps the sign she was already falling in to the hands of the devil. He nevertheless gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps all her braziers were in the wash and the clear visibility of her proud breasts an innocent oversight. Left hand on the steering wheel, right slipped into trouser pocket where he stroked his already awakened manhood before the pubic pluck he had learned from his teacher.

Rebecca Littler had had her fill of her parents hypocrisy. Normally she could stomach it and she had agreed to complete her schooling in Cornwall despite her growing realisation of how cut off the county was from the rest of the country. The group of friends she'd had since infant school took trips into Plymouth where they would go out clubbing and meet boys now they were of an age where all were able to pass themselves off as university students in their early twenties. But the poverty of public transport meant they'd invariably have to make a bond somewhere in the evening with acquaintances so as to have somewhere to crash. Julie and Helen were great friends. They'd shared hopes and dreams as they'd grown. Both were from families in her village, Tregaron and as cousins had an intuitive telepathy of which Becca, as she now preferred to be called often felt excluded from. But somehow even these excursions into the city that spanned Cornwall and Devon had grown predictable and tiresome. Last October whilst exuberant on mdma and Smirnoff ice as the club they had all flirted their way past the doorman to gain entrance to drew close to closing time she'd caught the eye of a handsome yet shy graphic design student called Nige. Emboldened by the drug and feeling horny as fuck she decided to blow his tiny mind by shimmying through the crowd in his direction and placed her arms on his shoulders and without introduction kissed him deeply on the lips. Even with the stroboscopic lights she could see him blush. She could tell that this was the night of his dreams. After a brief druggy introduction they'd shared a

highly edited resume of their lives up till now.

He'd pulled. After informing Helen and Julie and an even briefer introduction where they telepathically shared their judgment that he was a safe option she'd gone back to his student digs for a night of dull and unmemorable sex. The preparatory snogging session lasted longer. In the dimmed lights she'd removed her top revealing her bra that contained what she considered her best features. Her bra had been digging into her underarm all evening and for that reason alone she wanted to free them. Nigel lay back on his bed, this being unarguably the greatest moment his life. Ensuring light rays from his bedside lamp were angled providing e spotlight she unclipped the centre clasp, arched her back and thrust her chest forth . Nigel looked like a deer in the headlights as the pride she'd never before revealed to a boy stood forth. His trouser front looked troubled as she leant towards him his hands gratefully stroking and feeling her boobs. His cock fell much larger than she'd imagined a boys to be beneath his trouser front as she stroked, feeling its shape beneath the fabric. Unbuttoning him and pulling down his zip in curiosity his engorged member sprang out. She carefully stroked it twice and to her surprise he came, covering her arm, shoulder and left breast. Trying to suppress her feelings of disappointment and disgust she asked for directions to his bathroom. Soon they both slept for an hour until the drugs in her system dragged her reluctantly awake while Nige snored on. She spent the night staring at the ceiling waiting for the first bus back. At the buds stop her two friends huddled in the rain. They'd managed to latch on to a student party where they had more mdma and were given their first lines of cocaine by a long haired man who looked twice the age of the others there. They'd made the most of it, dancing for much of the night and giggling wondering how Becca was getting on. She felt too ashamed to disappoint them so gave a dreadfully embellished version of her night.

Unfortunately this destroyed her party nights out in Plymouth as Becca tried to steer Helen and Julie away from anywhere they were likely to encounter Nige yet disastrously he invariably seemed to appear as though he'd tagged her with a police tracer. Unable to admit her fibbery to her friends she continued her unsatisfactory relationship with him.

But now she would make a break from him as well. She'd left her phone for her parents to find who could be relied on to follow up their intrusive emotional sacrilege in finding a justification to read her messages whenever they could. Well they could call Nigel all they wanted. They could have each other. In fact she felt sure they'd get on just fine.

Becca held out no sign to say where she was heading as, in all honesty she did not know. For sure she had been warned of the possible dangers of hitchhiking. One night in Plymouth, when neither she nor Nige felt like clubbing, they'd watched a terrible slasher movie where the protagonist found herself in the car of a serial killer and bravely fought through an hour of increasingly unlikely scenarios before having to level a shotgun leant against a door jamb and punched two grapefruit size holes in the killer's chest. But her luck today appeared in as a jaguar driven by a man of god, dressed in their customary black with a neat white collar certifying his credibility.

Despite the new age look of the child Bennett slid his car to the side of the road and following a brief few words Becca sat beside him, safe on his leather upholstery where no crazed rapist could take her.

"Thanks for stopping. Are you a vicar?"

Bennett chuckled and replied, "no child, though I do god's work. There are many ways to serve the lord."

Becca considered her own beliefs for a moment; her crystal altar, her new age spirituality and a personal collection of random ideas she had learned from books she had bought in Plymouth on a plethora of idols.

"Are you a woman of faith?" He asked though to a man of his age she was far from womanhood.

"I have my own beliefs on higher powers that help us all, I'm not religious but very spiritual."

Bennett considered this admission that she conversed with none Christian beings angered him and his face flushed as his right hand irreconcilable took a large clump of pubic hair to soothe his growing rage. Attention having drifted from his driving caused the jaguar to drift also. Each cats eye his tyres ran across caused a quiver in her fine breasts. The loose waist coat had been pushed aside by her magnificent attributes and he could not draw his eye away from the sight of her nipples jiggling to the rhythm. Satan had intervened and drawn his hand to hold the steering wheel steady to witness the unholy brazen temptation of her bosoomic quiver of which Becca was quite unaware. Correcting his line back in to the lane was the act of the lord returning his mind to his usual Christian condition.

'Oh lord, please I pray provide me the strength to conquer Satans temptations.'

"I'm sorry? Did you say something?"

"Just a brief prayer for our safe journey."

Becca smiled back. She thought she had caught his gaze focused on her chest. Surely not she thought, not from a man of god.

He may never have noticed the tattoo at all had she buttoned her white cotton blouse fully up to her neck. She may even have fooled him into thinking she was an innocent child as those less trained, those not blessed with a radar for evil. The thought of how the devil and his helpers were so able to hide in plain sight enraged him. Thinking of Father Erasmus he slipped his right hand discreetly into his pocket and grabbed a large clump of pubic hair. Then glancing once more over to his passenger and the quivering temptation of her flesh he became aware that his holy sword was pointed to the heavens. For sure his calling was riddled with a thousand sacrifices that one must make. Yet the righteous zeal he looked forward to exploring in the creative manner he would punish this whore of Satan provided him great comfort. Witchfynder General Bennett sent a brief text to brother Tobin to let him know that he was running a little late and instructing him to wait, perhaps buy a breakfast on expenses.

The body of Rebecca Littler lay undiscovered for many months despite innumerable motorists pulling into the lay-by only yards from where she lay. Animals; foxes and rats had scattered her parts much of which was never found. Not until late the following winter when a urinating lorry driver took an interest in the white dome he had jet washed. It had been assumed Becca had run away. Taken agency and left behind the life that failed to satisfy her. But by the time what could be found of her bones were given a proper burial no evidence, dna or otherwise remained to tie Father Bennett to Rebecca Littler.

Brother Tobin took a quick selfie, smiling and thumb up #whenbreakfastis on the company. Quickly posting to his instagram and Facebook accounts before tucking into his double sausage and egg McMuffin. He'd been sternly spoken to about his use of social media and until now there had been very little to cause concern. But the honour had been simply too much to keep to himself. In truth he had very few followers and these were family or people he'd become acquainted with through his work with the church. So when he heard the Witchfynder General himself had called for him he had been unable to keep digital silence. The text from Father Bennett came as a disappointment. Such had been his excitement he'd been well over an hour early and Yeovil services takes few minutes to explore. Hence Brother Tobin had been waiting a full four hours by the time he saw Father Bennett's black jaguar pull into the carpark. Bennett was something of a legend to those who had studied alongside Tobin. Such were the secrets of the craft that beyond a certain point of learning there really was no turning back. So potentially dangerous was the knowledge deemed to be that any one that found this branch of the church was not for them essentially had to be silenced. There was talk of reposting at far flung monasteries. Whatever the truth none were ever heard of nor mentioned again.

Once sat next to Father Bennett brother Tobin took on a courteous servile manner. The Witchfynder General gave a brief speech on the extreme secrecy of what they were doing. He warned the younger Witchfynder that they would see things today no man or woman should ever have to see. Tobin respectfully kept his eyes to himself. Despite his superficial obedience the potential social media possibilities delivered to him a rush that most crack heads would envy. As yet his superior had not asked him to hand over his phone, perhaps assuming that any assistant the department assigned the service of would know that carrying such technology on this level of mission was understood to be a strict no no. Tobin blushed and quietly retained his secret. He held a deep respect for Father Bennett. The man was something of a legend to the younger trainee witchfynders. Hard as nails and devout as they come. It was rumoured that he was into three figures in those he had wrought justice upon. Nevertheless, the fear of incurring the wrath of this most fearsome of men failed to overcome his desire, no need, to post to his followers. Usually immaculate father Bennett appeared a little ruffled. Tobin felt an inner smile as a small trace of a spilt breakfast, perhaps porridge and a thick smear of what must be jam marred the lower trouser leg. Bennett caught Tobins stare and immediately plucked three tissues from the dispenser above the gear stick. Swiftly he swiped away the mess on his lower trouser leg, a clump of oats and blood, whilst retracting his side window before throwing the clump away. Thus the last trace of his carelessly consumed breakfast and Rebbeca Littler were gone.

The remainder of the journey passed with no further communication between the two Witchfynders though both quietly gave prayer for strength in the work that lay ahead for them.

Porton Down is arguably the most secretive and controversial government military science facility in the country. Entry is only for those who are required to be there. The black jaguar was waved through the various checkpoints and only on the final gate was Father Bennett required to show his security clearance, even this was something of a formality. The Witchfynder General was known to even the most lowly soldier working at the facility and all showed reverence and respect. He was pointed to a carpark space reserved for him and accompanied to the door that led to his specific area of interest. Here Bennett and Tobin were welcomed by military personnel who in turn put the priests in the hands of a pair of men in white lab coats. They took them down a corridor and into a heavily protected room where the two most senior scientists stood. It was here that the magisterium of the Witchfynders took over from science. An authority essentially from the Vatican and the pope himself however in working practice it was MI5 that solicited the skills of this darkest and most secretive division of the Church. MI5 had information on virtually everyone the state had cause to fear and many more who were of no threat, just deemed a bit too odd.

The large thickened glass tank stood some eight feet tall, eighteen inches above the head of the tallest of men present. Father Bennett crossed his chest, doused the air with a streak of holy water taken from the vial attached to his belt and uttered a prayer in Latin to create a fragile, protective layer between the team and the tank. Stepping forward from the group followed closely by his associates he scanned the ungodly sight before him. Three eel tails the size of his arm coated in a green slime that glowed, luminescent swam vigorously around the tank; unguided by any brain only the demonic evil of some strange dark power. A stench of putrefaction caused the young Witchfynder Tobin to vomit heavily. The scientists called out for the maintenance technician to bring a bucket and mop. But more disturbing was the short thicker length of conger demon slightly thicker than the body parts that darted about the water. Teeth, long needles dripping in the same green gloop that coated the rest each two to three inches in length framed the open mouth that gnashed together. The black dead eyes had clearly taken in the visitors focused on the priests and pulsed a glow. Stirred and enraged by the newcomers the half eel took a swift squiggle line to build up speed before ramming itself with immense power as it tried to reach and kill. Splitting on the glass which held up to the Grace of god. Enraged in its inability to reach its target it span off around the tank. A wave of profound fear overcame the group of men who were unable to resist the temptation to move back. Tumbling over each other as they impulsively retreated, all now vomiting as a dark terror overcame them. Tobin to his credit at least remained in the room, wiping away the sick from his chin took the iPhone from his pocket and faced away to take a quick selfy. The photo his small bunch of followers would see was half of Tobins vomit smeared face looking terrified with the back of father Bennett alone stood in silhouette framed by the blue water of the tank. No demonic conger eels showed up. Demons in general can not be photographed existing in the thin membrane that stands between our shared reality and the mind of their beholder. Bennett, oblivious to the infantile attempts at social media recognition Tobin sought out so desperately stared, mesmerised by the demon parts. No stranger to the forces of darkness he alone was able to study these hellspawn parts. What powers must the witches who had summoned up from the belly of hell this repugnance? It was clear this would be no easy task. Not the simple dismissal from this gods earth that had been his duty on Rebbeca, the hitch hiking whore of a witch he had raped and slaughtered with little regard earlier that day. These witches were in a different league. As he turned and walked away, towards the door as Tobin hid away his phone already his mind was working on the torture it would take to remove them from this life. The Witchfynder General would need all his powers, all his expertise and experience, all his soul to cast out the Witches of Clun who had returned these demons to this realm.

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