chapter 9

The Witchfynder general and his apprentice begin their mission to seek out, torture and kill any surviving witches, shamans and Druids.

Henry Bennett detested mobile phones and the persistent ringing had annoyed him in equal measure to the stimulus its vibration created in his pocket. The hole he had cut was only small, providing just sufficient access to his pubic area. The fact that this cursed device triggered an erection confirmed that it was the work of the devil. He was reminded of the hitchhiking Hussey whose opting to wear no bra and the jiggle of her breasts had ensured that he was left with no choice. What satanic thinking had possessed the child to clothe herself with no regard for the natural, Christian impulses the lord had bestowed on him. A priest. A man of god. The hand of god that had used him as his tool to deliver righteous judgment. The memory had filled his shaft against which the phone vibrated causing it to point heavenward.

‘I’d best take it’ he thought. It could be information from Porton Down with further developments on the chunks of demon flesh he had been shown, writhing about in their tanks.

“Bennett” he never answered with his religious title in case it was a work call. His work as Witchfynder General was top secret. “To whom am I speaking?”

“It’s the PM. We have good news. Bunsen survived. Pulled from the waters by one of us. Granted, he attended Shrewsbury but publicly schooled none the less. He is back in communication and two dozen survived the demonic terrorism.”

“Undoubtedly great news. I need to speak with this Bunsen. Find out exactly what type of pagan nominations we’re dealing with. Can you arrange a meeting. Or at least a zoom call. Did he say anything that might be useful in our endeavour. Brother Tobin is yet to taste the lord’s joy when one of Satans minions is cast back in to the hell where they belong”

“Not yet. He’s only spoken of the young entrepreneur who saved him.”

The Witchfynder general smelt something was amiss. The passengers had all been self serving billionaires. It struck him as peculiar that one of these sort of whose lives had been spent driven by a greed beyond that of even the mid level of the premier league. An elite of a few hundred who had climbed to the very peak, something only achievable through sociopathic self interest.

“The man who saved Bunsen, any more information on him?”

“Not much. Bunsen said he didn’t recognise him though there were a number who had little social connections. He’d earned his money in IT. I guess those computer types generate fortunes without having to engage in the hob nobbing at social functions and dinner parties that the rest of us had to network at to gain the connections necessary for a comfortable life”

“Did he give a name?”

“Peter Skreeblton. It’s not a family name that I was familiar with but good on the chap! We all thought Bunsen was dead!”

The name was like a bullet in the gut for Bennett. Skreeblton! The past decade had been a cat and mouse game. Skree and Lipton were the two most powerful shamans in the British isles. Each time he’d felt close to capturing this pair they somehow slipped away. He had come close when they had teamed up with a delusional crusty who believed he was Christ. Passing oneself off as the messiah was sufficient reason to be tortured until the charlatan confessed his fraudulent lies and only death could be appropriate punishment. But Skree and Lipton! They had engaged with pagan gods; spent time in the underworld. It all began to make sense. Who else would be so motivated and jealous of the good Christian wealth? They claimed a pursuit of the true teachings of Christ. The envy of wealth. But the true Christ, the one that had ascended into heaven and was only accessible through the priesthood of the Catholic Church welcomed the donations of his devotees that supported the Vatican and the channel through which he was bestowed with the divine right to extinguish the fakers and worshipers of pagan gods. It had become the goal of his life. His name as the Witchfynder general who brought these two agents of lucifer and the fraudulent messiah to be tortured until they renounced Satan and then a slow death to send them on to hell where they belong. His name would be talked of a century from now as among the greatest Witchfynder generals of all time.

He and brother Tobin had been forced to spend the night at a premier inn. Tobin, a constant irritant had appeared overjoyed to be staying in a generic room in this chain of cheap hotels. Father Bennett was reluctant to sleep in cotton sheets preferring a hessian sack he always brought on missions of Witchfynding that could often disrupt his schedule. He only hoped Tobin had had the sense to refrain from using the overly large television screens these places invariably had. The hotel, if one could stretch the word to include these ghastly places was largely full of building contractors. This of course meant that ladies of the night could be seen huddled together as their car had approached. Father Bennett had taken a mental note of this but was pleased to see brother Tobin continued to be mesmerised by the smart phone that he had something of an addiction to. They had shared a formal meal he had prepared with some goods he had the foresight to purchase from a farm shop near Porton Down. He had washed the three carrots and the lettuce they had shared with his own hands, removing any small patches of earth to ensure the meal was pleasant. He had even given Tobin one of the two russet apples he had bought as a treat for the young apprentice Witchfynder. Tobin had smiled and thanked him though unbeknownst to Bennett had made a brief journey out to a convenience store and bought himself a star bar and two cans of red bull. Bennett waited in his room for a couple of hours so the young Tobin would be asleep before making his own venture out into the night. The young witchfynder was not yet ready to take the autonomous decisions to rid the world of those under Satans spell who were only too common in this country. It was close to 1am when he walked to where he had seen the gaggle of harlots as they had arrived. Now only one remained plying her unholy trade.

“Do you want business love?” she had asked. Bennett had responded with a single word, “Oral.”

He roughly maneuvered the sex worker into the darkened shop doorway.

“Steady on love!” she had reprimanded him as he had pushed her to her knees.

“Bathe the unholy child in the water of your mouth.”

This strumpet was clearly well schooled by whatever demon had possessed the child.

“Cleanse him deeply” Bennett instructed as he took the woman’s head in his hands. From here forward he spoke only in Latin as he thrust his holy sword as deep as he could. Despite the choking sounds she had begun to make he was able to deliver his cleansing seed. As he began to wilt his hands slipped down to her neck and with the full rage of the lord, disgusted by the act the temptress had brought about he squeezed. He could not say how long for only that her body had been limp for some time before he stopped. The road was quiet. No one could have seen him nor how he rolled her crumpled body into the deep shadow. Nipping across the silent street he made his way toward the all night garage. The young Asian lad who worked nights there could only describe him as a tall white man in a long trench coat. He bought a green canister and filled it with unleaded explaining the unasked for reason as to why he needed petrol was that his taxi had run out on a long distance fare. He smiled and confessed to being an idiot from out of town. The death of a working girl was not unusual and seldom attracted the ever diminished funds of the police force.

Once back to the body he doused it in the petrol and making sure that the road was quiet he lit the bundle. It always gave him satisfaction knowing he had done the lords work.

The following morning the two men of the church and MI5 met early for breakfast. Father Bennett had his usual porridge with salt and looked disappointed at brother Tobins full English breakfast. “The Lord God in his earthly form frowned on greed. And his father sees everything.”

Reprimanded Tobin blushed before tucking into the sausage, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and hash browns. “I’m going to the washroom and will be in the foyer in fifteen minutes.” Bennett’s stomach rumbled in envy despite himself as he took his leave. “Don’t be late!”

Once he’d gone brother Tobin felt able to enjoy his breakfast. Once the older man was out of sight he took out his phone and took a snap of himself and his stacked plate, a broad grin was a thumbs up. Excitedly he posted the photo to his instagram page with the caption ‘when the company is paying for breakfast.’ His followers were now in three figures. There’d been a jump over the last twenty four hours. Social media could go like this, he thought. Start with your friends, then their friends then anything can happen. Tobin finished his meal and couldn’t resist a second post of his empty plate held up next to his contentedly smiling face.

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