Woman who hunted down children, The

THE WOMAN WHO HUNTED DOWN CHILDREN

Another city. Another child.
Facing into the wind, she picked up the smell of terror, a thin,
high-pitched odour rising above the bleached-bone hygiene, the
under-the-carpet stealth. This one was howling. The noise hit her at a
hundred paces, but no one else took a blind bit of notice. By now she
was really hungry. Days must have passed since she'd last eaten. Her
stomach groaned and sagged. Not long now. Another hour at most, then
she'd gorge herself senseless. Saliva gathered.
How well covered would this one be?
Clearing a path with her big hips and shoulders that rivalled those of
Atlas - wide and muscular enough to bear all the troubles of the world
- she began homin in on the sound. It peaked outside a Bank. Inside she
scented the air. Where was it hiding? Who was hiding it? There were
half a dozen closed doors. Not that they were a problem. It was what
went on behind closed faces that was the worry. She elbowed her way
through the crowd, ignoring the living dead with their stopped ears,
their blank eyes and petrified hearts. Time enough for them,
later.
It wasn't difficult. A goat always baffles the sheep. Her hand was on
the door before the security guard caught up with her. By now the
child's anguish was unbearable. It was a case of being cruel to be
kind: nothing and nobody was going to stop her getting in there, into
the Underworld, to put it out of its misery. She was a large woman.
When she turned on him, eyes blazing, he reasoned that a public brawl
wouldn't do the Bank's image much good. Backing down, he asked for her
name.
"I'm The Mother," she said, indignantly pushing him aside.
The sobbing drew up through the door, right up to the desk. It didn't
surprise her that the culprit was a Bank Manager. Such twisted beings
came from every walk of life. She wasn't fooled by appearances either.
Not by the authoritatively steepled fingers, only partially masking the
wounded mouth; certainly not by the fine suit, spun at the cost of a
million larvae. In turn she watched him size her up, registering the
smoky-mushroom scent of autumn, the wild, grey-streaked hair, the mossy
jumper, the voluminous skirt.
His eyes lingered on the circlet of faded flowers and plaited corn.
Definitely eccentric. Probably mad. More than likely rich as Croesus.
Was she a client? He racked his brain for her name.
She looked at him askance. "I'm The Mother."
Her impatience grew. Despite all his effortsthe child was clearly
visible, cowering in a corner, hunched into the foetal position, making
itself small in the hope of staying unnoticed.
Like so many stupid adults, this pathetic creature was getting in the
way of her work. She didn't have time for games. There was still so
much to do, so many to hunt down. Fumbling in her pocket of
distractions, she offered him an apple.
It was a Cox's orange pippin, gold streaked with scarlet, slightly
lop-sided, exactly like the ones in the long-ago orchard of home. The
warmth of his hand released its sweet, trapped-summer smell, unlocking
a host of buried memories. And something else, something so deeply
suppressed as to be almost out of reach, which made him catch his
breath.
Normally such warnings, surfacing in private, were quickly drowned.
Unable to snatch up the bottle in a client's presence, he found his
teeth tearing at the tart flesh with a vigour approaching savagery. The
chunk of fruit stuck in his throat. Tears filled his eyes. His heart
began aching. Massaging his thyroid cartilage, he glanced from mad old
woman to apple in bewilderment. And couldn't tear his eyes away.
Things were happening right at the core.
Already the flesh had browned, turning the familiar view forming in the
bite's concave depths a nostalgic sepia. Trees and rivers, meadowland
dappled with flowers, a country lane, green lawns, wide herbaceous
borders, drew him slowly, ineluctably, into the past, a self-operated
zoom lens focusing on a point as yet unrecognised. The years rolled
back. Time unfolded itself. For once, there was nothing he could do to
stop it. He froze, staring into a place that was at once inside and
outside of himself.
"You can come out now." Her tone was gentle.
The child uncurled, blinking at the light. From behind the world-weary
adult eyes he too focused on what lay within the apple. Imprisoned in
perpetual present, his view was shaded differently. Grey, not golden.
Grim: people with goblin shadows and grasping hands. Sensing his
chance, realising the adult reluctance, he sprang forward, dragging him
past the immaculate garden, bursting through the door, stumbling up the
stairs, forcing him back into the dark and terrible secrets of the room
to confront the father who wouldn't stop and the mother who wouldn't
see.
His screams were enough to set the air trembling and make angels weep.
Finally they even woke his adult self.
Fury convulsed the corpulent frame. Shedding his false shame, he
wrapped his arms across his chest, a gesture promising protection to
the child he had been, his most vulnerable inner self. Then he began to
cry, a deep gutteral sobbing that only the child's unconditional
forgiveness would ever hope to heal.
Observing the tears streaming down his face, she prised the wizened
apple from his fingers. It would be called nervous breakdown, but she
preferred emotional break-out. Didn't matter. His career was over. And
that didn't matter either. Man and child, re-integrated, he could
escape into the sunshine, leaving the joyless past behind.
One less. She heaved a great sigh. Would there be time to eat? Probably
not. Already she could make out another, its smothered grief rising in
a siren shriek above the quiet everyday despair. Gathering up her
skirts, she began to run.