Episode Six - 'Fear Loves This Place'

The bright headlights roused Mary from her cosy daydreams and reminded her that Mark was now over an hour late. She sat comfortably enough on a grassy verge, on the side of a quiet country road, with her back to a sign that read "Waverley 13 km." A battered rucksack, her faithful companion throughout the years, lay on the grass next to her. Mary was 23 and had been hitch hiking on and off for two years since dropping out of college in a romantic attempt to discover some meaning to life. Mark, her boyfriend, was late, but then Mark was always late, and generally so was she. Mary watched as the transit van slowed down and ground to a halt twenty yards down the empty road. She raised her eyebrows hopefully and reached for her bag as the passenger door swung open, but the figure who stepped out was not Mark.

It was another hitchhiker - a man in his mid to late thirties, with medium length hair, a goatee beard, and tanned skin. He was dressed poorly enough in patched jeans, hiking boots, a bright Hawaiian shirt, a battered fedora and a manky long coat with the right sleeve torn away. Curiously, there were at least three watches on his bare right wrist. Tucked into a pocket of his coat was a short umbrella. A pair of dark glasses was pushed up onto his forehead. The man seemed to thank his driver, shook his hand, and produced a small cling film bag from inside his hatband, which he slipped into the driver's hand in return for the ride. Then he straightened up and watched the van drive away.

Mary settled back down on the grass and unzipped one of the pockets on her rucksack. She retrieved the remaining Mars bar and a can of Tasty Cola. The male hitchhiker seemed to have barely noticed her. Like Mary, he had his own rucksack, and from it he produced a packet of cigarettes. He placed one to his lips and patted his coat pockets, searching for his lighter. He turned round slowly and noticed Mary for the first time. Smiling, he sauntered towards her.

Mary sniffed and took a swig of the cola. She watched him approach and sling his rucksack onto the ground close to the traffic sign. He took his cigarette out of his mouth and tilted the brim of his fedora back.

"Afternoon," he said, though evening was drawing near.

"Hi," replied Mary.

"I seem to have misplaced my lighter."

"Sure." Mary reached into the side pocket of her leather jacket and produced a chromium Zippo. She lit his cigarette, extinguished the lighter and replaced it again.

"I think it's going to be a cold night tonight." He sniffed the air, like an animal might.

"Yes." Mary sipped some more of the coke. Mark was such a shit.

"Where have you come from?"

"Bath. I'm waiting for my boyfriend. He had to visit some friends in Bristol last night and we agreed to meet up here. I think he must be having trouble getting a lift."

"It can be difficult at times," he agreed, smoking his cigarette. "It's not the most efficient way to travel, but it suits me just fine."

"Where are you from?"

"The Lake District - well, that's where my Family are at the moment. We move around frequently."

"You're a traveller?"

"Oh yes." He grinned. "I don't like to stay in the same place too long."

"But you have a family?" asked Mary.

"Oh yes, we're very close."

Mary finished off her drink and tucked the empty can back into her rucksack. "I've been waiting here for over two hours now. My useless boyfriend is late."

He smiled. "You don't know how right you are."

"Huh?" Mary bit into her Mars bar. "What do you mean? You agree he's useless?"

"Nothing like that. I was simply agreeing with you that Mark's late." He sat down on the dry grass and watched the empty road.

"He can be such a shit at times."

The man laughed and began to re-tie a bootlace that had come undone.

"Wait a minute." Mary stared at him. "How do you know his name's Mark?"

He looked up, and raised an eyebrow. "You told me."

"No I didn't. I'm sure I didn't."

"Well Mary, how could I possibly know his name otherwise?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"I… didn't tell you my name either." Mary was suddenly very aware of the solitude of the countryside, of the quiet road, and the neat hedges separating her from the fields.

"Mark is late, Mary."

Mary stared at him.

"Late, as in the late, dearly departed Mark Andrews." He stared back and his grin grew wider.

"What."

"He's probably still lying in that ditch where I left him last night. I've noticed, from experience, that bodies take a while to be discovered in the countryside."

Mary began to slide away from him.

"He does love you, you know. He wanted you to know that. My name's Woland by the way - Professor Woland."

"He's dead." Mary's voice cracked.

"Afraid so. But I think death was something of a blessing to him when it did eventually come. Certainly, he cried out for it enough times."

"Oh God." Mary jumped to her feet. Woland remained seated.

"I asked him many questions throughout the night, to keep his mind attentive and focused on the pain. He told me all about you - about you leaving home a few years ago - about the brother that you haven't seen since you were five, and finally, after much cutting, that you would be here waiting for him at five o'clock today." Woland produced a fruit knife and an orange and began to peel the fruit while he talked. "He told me so much about you, how he loved you, how he wanted to eventually marry you, and have children and all that - and I thought, I really must meet this amazing girl." Now he looked up. "So here I am."

"You've come to kill me." Mary was trembling.

"Not necessarily. I only kill people who want to die."

"Mark didn't want to die." tears formed in her eyes.

"Actually, he did. It got to the point where he was begging me for it. I was there, Mary - you weren't."

"You were torturing him!" she screamed.

Woland shrugged. "I grant you it may have been a deciding factor on his part."

"I'm not going to let you do that to me."

"I never said I was. That depends on a number of things."

Mary stared down the road in both directions.

"I wouldn't advise that. You'll only get one chance to flag down a passing car. Trust me - if it doesn't stop for you, you're dead. And if it does stop for you... well..." he stared deep into her eyes, "pray that your shining knight knows how to fight. I am a very... very... dangerous man." His eyes narrowed hard. "I regret to inform you by the way that Mark repeatedly referred to you as a cheap slutty whore."

Mary backed away. "Mark would never say that."

"I assure he did, hundreds and hundreds of times. I promised him that I wouldn't begin to cut his eyeballs open until he stopped saying it. Those were pretty much his last words before he died: 'Mary is a cheap slutty fuck,' over and over again. Well, at least he was thinking about you, which is more than can be said for so many boyfriends these days." He patted the grass beside his rucksack. "Come, sit down while you're deciding whether to gamble your life by calling for help. There aren't any cars here yet anyway. While we're waiting for one - I am curious as to what you're going to do by the way - I'd like to tell you a little story."

"A story?"

"It'll while away the time. This isn't a busy road after all. I heard the story from a man, who heard it from a man. you know the sort of thing. It's a story set in the forests of Vermont. It concerns an English super heroine called Argent, and an unusually gifted chef called the Surgeon General."

LOVE FEARS THIS PLACE

Elenor Haines yawned and leant against the steering wheel of her van. She rubbed her eyes, trying to stay awake. Driving long distances was always tiring, but having only had four hours sleep the night before didn't help matters much. 'I could use some coffee,' she thought. Beside her in the passenger seat, Jason, the latest in a regular line of short term boyfriends, had a map of Vermont spread out on his lap. He was examining it closely with a camping torch, squinting to see the tiny roads in the hope of working out where they were.

Elenor opened the glove compartment and searched inside for a bag of sweets. She popped one of the peppermints in her mouth and sucked it as she gazed out the window. It was early evening and they had chosen to park in a small clearing thirty yards off the forest road. Dense clumps of trees surrounded the parking space. Birds fluttered overhead, squawking occasionally. The steady swish-swish of the windscreen wipers reminded Elenor that it was still raining in Vermont. It had been raining on and off now for several days, making this one of the wettest holidays she'd had in years.

"Any luck?" Elenor put her hand on Jason's leg and stroked it. He shook his head without looking up.

"I'm not sure, but I think we came off the main road somewhere about here." He pointed at a small junction twelve miles back the way they'd come. "But in the absence of any proper road signs I'm really not sure."

"We're lost then?" Elenor raised her eyebrows.

"Well, I know we're still in Vermont." Jason shrugged his shoulders.

"I would call that lost, yes." Elenor reached into the back of the van and pulled out a small umbrella. She opened the side door and stepped out onto the wet grass, raising the umbrella in the rain.

"Where are you going?" shouted Jason.

"Nowhere. I just want some fresh air." Elenor listened for sounds of traffic in the distance but could hear none. She sniffed and smelt the fresh air, clean now from the rain. "It's getting late, darling, and I'm really too tired to drive any more. Why don't we sleep here and try to find our bearings in the morning?"

"Here?" Jason stared into the gloomy trees. "We do have a room waiting for us, remember."

"We could be driving for hours trying to find it. Let's sleep in the van tonight. It won't kill us." Elenor smiled. "And it might be fun."

"I'm not eighteen anymore, Elenor. I like my creature comforts."

"Put it this way." Elenor smiled and winked, "I'll make it fun."

THE HOUSE

The Surgeon General opened his larder. Inside, his pieces of meat shrank away, their eyes pleading with him not to be next. He gazed at the fine flank of beef on the young man and considered the sweet ribs of that girl he'd found camping in the forest six nights ago. Humming a little song, the Surgeon General slid the steel door shut and locked it with his big iron key. He waved the key at the naked men and women, daring them to try and take it, but of course no one did.

"Pot roast tonight." he said, maliciously. "A boned shoulder, rolled and tied, seasoned with fresh thyme, marjoram, and a hint of rosemary. Always heat the oil in a flameproof casserole over high heat. Brown the meat, turning it frequently to colour it evenly on all sides." He could almost taste the gravy as he spoke. The Surgeon General checked the food trough and found it mostly empty. "Good, good, very good." He slit open a blue plastic pack of cooked giblets and emptied them into the trough. "Food for all, food for all. Don't be shy." He stepped back and watched the livestock as they crouched in the back of the larder. No one wanted to be first in case it might be a trick. The Surgeon General stirred the hot giblets with one of his knives. "Come, come, fresh food, freshly cooked." He gazed at the camping girl and beckoned her over. New to the larder, she was, she had so far refused to eat. This was her fifth day. He could see the sheer hunger in her eyes, but still the sense of revulsion remained in her face. They all broke in the end of course. Only a matter of time after all. Still, the Surgeon General did have a rule not to eat anything that hadn't fed first. He drew back and was satisfied to see the rest of his larder scramble to the feeding trough to eat. "Good meat, good meat," he smiled behind his mask.

CAMPING

Elenor could hear the sound of Jason chopping wood for the campfire as she walked through the outskirts of the forest clearing. She loved the tranquillity of the forest as evening fell; the way everything was calm and peaceful, away from the rigors of the city. It was good to take a holiday, she thought to herself, good to get away from the endless fighting and striving to make the world a better place. She sat down beside a stream and dipped her right hand in the cold, clear water. And oblivious to her surroundings as she was, lost deep in thought, Elenor failed to notice a movement in the trees towards the east.

The Surgeon General was hungry, but then the Surgeon General was always hungry. No one had ever told him that possessing super strength and super speed and super skin meant having a super metabolism. And a super metabolism meant a super appetite. No matter how much he ate, no matter how often he fed, The Surgeon General could not escape the ever-present ache inside his belly. His mouth perpetually dripped with saliva; his mind seemed obsessed with food, particularly meat, a strong source of protein and calories. Meat meant murder. Murder meant hunting. Hunting meant meat.

He watched the man as he walked about his campsite gathering wood and stacking it for a fire. Not too plump a body, but not too hard and wiry either. Beneath his army gas mask, the Surgeon General licked his lips and smiled. He jumped down from the high branch and landed on the ground several feet behind his unsuspecting victim. The man seemed to turn round in slow motion; his eyes stared wide at the sight of the gangly hunter clad in a khaki green boiler suit and regulation ABC mask. Jason's jaw dropped as the Surgeon flicked open the fingers of his right hand. Thin bladed scalpels slid into position along each finger.

"Christ." was all Jason had time to say before the monster's left hand grasped him by the throat. "Elenor!" he managed to scream before the iron grip choked his words away.

The greasy gas mask pressed itself close to his face. The voice coming from it was old and brittle and very cold. "Pan fried liver," it hissed, "thinly sliced, with sage, tomatoes and chives." Jason gurgled and flailed futilely in the monster's grip. The Surgeon drove the heel of his right hand into Jason's face, breaking his nose with a single blow. "Kidney slices, sautéed in butter - the only way to dine." He carried Jason effortlessly towards the nearest tree and dashed his head against the trunk.

Elenor had heard Jason's single cry and was already on her way back, running between the trees, back towards the camp, back towards her boyfriend. She jumped through a thick growth of brambles, thorns raking her skin, and skidded into the clearing in time to see a tall figure carrying an unconscious Jason away. The mask turned to regard her. And with a simple thought, the Surgeon raised thousands of leaves, branches, twigs and stones into the air throughout the clearing. The debris span round and round like a hurricane, filling the air completely. In a matter of seconds Elenor was blind, choking on dirt and dead leaves. She stumbled and lost her bearings; she was no longer certain in which direction she was facing, or where Jason's attacker might be. Every time she tried to open her eyes dirt flew at her face. She tried to cry out Jason's name, but her mouth was suddenly filled with leaves. Elenor fell back and hit a tree. She reached up, grasped a branch and swiftly pulled herself out of the whirlwind below. Climbing ever higher from branch to branch, blindly at first, Elenor found some clean air. By the time she cleared the dirt from her eyes, both the Surgeon General and Jason were gone.

INSIDE

Jason sat hunched in the larder with the other ready meals. He could hear the pacing around upstairs. Inside the storeroom nobody spoke. The only sound came from a girl, crying to herself.

"Who is he," mumbled Jason through his broken nose. "What does he want with us?"

No one said anything by way of reply, except for the girl who wiped her snotty nose on her arm. "I don't know," she cried. "I think he's lived here a long time though. No one here's been here longer than two weeks. He eats people."

Jason stared up at the ceiling, imagining the Surgeon General pacing about the rooms upstairs. "He's a cannibal?"

The girl nodded and wiped away some of her tears. "He doesn't talk, except when he talks about food. And he's always walking around - I don't think he ever goes to sleep. No one knows who he is." She drew herself closer to Jason and pressed a finger into his ribs. "He likes men especially, but he won't eat you until you eat first."

"What - he wants to fatten us up?"

"No," she shook her lank, greasy hair. "He likes to degrade us - he wants us to know that we're no different, no better than he is. He wants us to eat as well."

Jason stared at her. "You mean."

She nodded. "I haven't, you know. I haven't, but I'm so very hungry." She looked thin and pale and drawn and haggard from fear and crying. Jason put his arm around her bony shoulders. "I..." fresh tears rolled down her sunken cheeks. "I'm so hungry."

OUTSIDE

Elenor had run back to the van and ripped the side doors open to retrieve her costume. She had dressed quickly, hardly bothering with anything other than the jacket and mask. Whoever had taken Jason was heavy enough to leave conspicuous footprints in the wet soil. Masked now as Argent, Elenor had followed the trail all the way to a forest path that, in turn, had led eventually to an old woodland house. Walking towards the building, making no pretence at stealth, Argent tried the main door but found it locked. She sniffed, looked around, and decided to break a window instead. She rolled a single low note around her mouth and let it slip. The pane of glass dissolved from the intensity of the blast.

Inside the house something smelt bad. There was the lingering scent of too much cooking in the air, the smell of cheap fat and roasted pork in rooms that had not seen fresh air in months. She found herself standing in an ordinary living room. This in turn led to a hallway and a set of stairs. Further down the hallway was another room - a dining room. Argent walked carefully down the darkened hallway, feeling her way forward, constantly aware of a presence waiting somewhere in the deafening silence of the house. And then she heard the sound. It seemed to be a whimper, coming from the dining room, or perhaps beyond the dining room.

And again, another whimper. She moved quickly, entering the dining room, seeing the single space set for dinner, and the furthest door that led to the kitchen. The door was open now; the light was on in the kitchen; the smell of meat and vegetables cooking on a stove mixed with the smell of antiseptic coming from the large chopping board on the kitchen table. And then Argent saw the girl. She was crouching on the cold floor of the kitchen, crying. The girl was in her early twenties, naked, with a thick chain around her throat, padlocked to an iron ring set into the tiled floor. Her body had been drawn on with a thick black felt tip - choice cuts of meat were carefully marked out, ready for the chopper. The girl crouched, her hands pulling on the chain, unable to escape. She looked up, noticing Argent for the first time. "Please..." was all she could say.

Argent ran towards the girl, and as she did so, as she passed through the kitchen doorway, the Surgeon General swung round from behind the door. Too late Argent saw the blur of movement. She raised her arm, just as the man brought his tire iron down against her head. The impact knocked Argent to the floor, stunned. In a moment, the Surgeon General was on her back, hissing through his gas mask, into her ear.

"Trussing holds a bird together during cooking so that it keeps a neat, attractive shape." He seized her hair in his hands and smacked her face into the tiled floor twice. "You can truss with strong string or poultry skewers." He took Argent's right wrist and locked it into a handcuff. The second cuff he locked about her left ankle. "Oh yes, make two passes in alternate directions, through the body at the open end, from wing to wing, and tie."

The Surgeon General leapt to his feet, kicked the girl from the larder out of his way, and turned to the sink. "Raw poultry may harbour potentially harmful organisms, such as salmonella bacteria, so it is vital to take care in its preparation. Always wash your hands, the chopping board, knife and poultry shears in hot soapy water before and after handling the poultry." He picked up a pair of heavy shears. "Freshly washed already." he hissed.

Argent turned on the floor. She could barely see, but she could hear him all right. She heard the chink of the bone shears opening and closing on its coiled spring joint.

"Chop-chop, chop-chop." said the Surgeon General.

Argent rolled to her side and screamed. The sonic blast took the Surgeon General by surprise. He was thrown back. Argent crawled back, her face wet with blood. Even now the Surgeon General was returning to his feet, screaming something about pan-fried liver. A chopping knife slammed point first into the wall inches from her head. More knives rose from hooks on the kitchen walls. The blades hovered in the air, daring her to move again. 'He's a telekinetic,' thought Argent. She pulled at the steel handcuff as hard as she could. Argent altered the inflection of her voice and shattered the knife blades simultaneously. Careful... she had to be careful - the frightened girl in the kitchen was already bleeding through her ears and nose and eyes from the intensity of the sonic assault - too much more might kill her. Argent risked one more blast and split the links between the handcuffs.

Suddenly a fire blanket rose from the wall behind Argent and wrapped itself around her head and upper torso. Cooking pots threw themselves at her, followed by a maelstrom of chairs, and a fire extinguisher. Argent was knocked to either side by this punishing series of attacks. She clawed at the fire blanket, tearing against the telekinetic pressure that was pressing it to her skin. She pulled her head free just in time to see the Surgeon General slash suddenly at her face with his hand held blades. Argent twisted furiously, but not quickly enough to avoid a deep scalp wound.

"Ack." she kicked upwards and knocked him back. Spinning on her heel, she snapped two more kicks at his face and chest. It was like kicking a sack of coal. 'Not just telekinesis then.' she thought grimly.

"Fresh meat, freshly cut - see your local butcher today!" he screamed, slicing the air once, twice, three times with a pair of stainless steel cleavers. He left one of them embedded in the wall. Argent chopped at his left arm, hoping to break the radius or humerus with a single blow, but the Surgeon General didn't even drop his weapon. "Where would family gatherings be without the time-honoured roast bird?" His empty fist broke two of the wall tiles as he missed Argent by inches. "Older, tougher birds are better pot-roasted!" He kicked out, turning the heavy wooden table over as if it was made of plywood. "You will need a sharp long-bladed knife, plus a long 2-pronged fork and a carving board with a well to catch the thick red juices of the meat."

"Will you shut the fuck up!" screamed Argent. Blood was running into her eyes from her scalp wound. She kicked and punched, blocked two more flying pots that flew towards her face, and rolled backwards in time to miss another chop from the remaining cleaver.

"You can do a lot with just a big bowl and a sturdy spoon, but there are many tools that make cooking easier." The Surgeon General took hold of the chained girl and raised the blades on his right hand. "Slice the meat thinly in strips to stir fry in oil." He sliced a sliver of flesh off her left thigh. The slice of meat fell to the floor.

Argent closed her ears to the awful screaming. Now the Surgeon General's razors lingered just below the girl's left breast. "To separate the breast from the back, cut through the flap of skin just below the rib cage."

Enough. Enough! Argent went for him, closing in and risking the reach of his weapons. She ducked the first blow, blocked the second with her forearm, but failed to dodge the third blow that cut across her right arm. She hit the Surgeon General with a close range sonic blast that shattered the lenses in his gas mask. At last he fell. Argent glanced down and saw that the blast had injured the girl as well.

"I'm sorry..." she reached for the chain fastening the girl to the floor. "There must be a key to this somewhere." Argent searched the Surgeon General's suit, but the only key was a large iron key, far too big to fit the chain.

His hands suddenly shot up and fastened themselves round her throat. Argent gasped, unable to speak. She stamped down with the heel of her boot and tried to pull away. Falling backwards, she swung her feet up and lifted his body into the air, flinging it up and over her head. The Surgeon General crashed into the wall beside the larder and landed hard, impaling himself on a rack of meat hooks. He hung there, with three hooks protruding from his rib cage. And then, still alive, he began to howl like a wolf with its leg caught in a steel trap. Argent raised herself slowly from the floor. Ignoring the wounded madman, she hobbled painfully towards the cellar door. A single scream shattered the lock and blew the door off its hinges. Inside the cold stone hole, dozens of pairs of sunken eyes gazed up at her. Their expressions were a mixture of shock and bewilderment. Elenor searched the faces and saw Jason sitting beside a cold, shivering girl.

"Please tell me you're Ok?" Elenor took the first step into the cellar.

Jason breathed a great sigh of relief and ran forward to hug his girlfriend. Elenor rubbed his hair and kissed him, squeezing his waist to hers. They stood there for a while, not saying a thing. Slowly, one by one, the other prisoners filed out around them, their eyes blinking as they emerged into the bright light of the kitchen.

FEAR LOVES THIS PLACE (REPRISE)

The story was over, and now it was evening and darkness had fallen over that lonely stretch of road. All was quiet for a moment.

Mary cleared her throat, nervously. "Did that really happen?"

"Who knows? It's a story. Stories are as real as your imagination allows them to be. After all, what is real? Sometimes I have these dreams where I'm naked, in an underground laboratory - but that's another matter entirely."

"And now? Does my story have a happy ending?"

"Ah... the eternal question." Woland stared into the distance. Pinpricks of light became evident as a truck rounded the bend. The headlamps shone in the early evening air.

Mary was suddenly in the middle of the road, waving her arms frantically, shouting for the truck driver to stop. A screech of air breaks brought the truck to a standstill five feet away from hitting her. Woland regarded events from the lay-by.

"Are you crazy?" The driver climbed down from the cab.

"Help me!" screamed Mary, pointing back towards Woland. "He's going to kill me."

The driver was 15 stone of solid tattooed muscle. He glanced at Mary and then turned to face Woland. "Got something to say, then?" he growled. Woland sighed and took a step forward. His hand rippled as he brushed it along the side of the truck, gouging out a strip of metal with his index finger. The driver stared, with his jaw hanging open.

Woland turned briefly towards Mary. "You gambled. And you lost." And then the killing began.

MORNING

Woland was disturbed by the constant ringing of his mobile phone. He stretched his arms, yawned, reached for it in his canvas bag and switched it on. "Yes?"

"It's Maya. We have a situation." The voice was female.

"Details?" enquired Woland.

"There has been a break in during your absence. Two men - para-military by the looks of them. We have three human casualties, and Donna-Marie has been injured."

"Where are these intruders now?"

"Tied to chairs in the basement."

Woland sniffed the morning air. "I'll be back home by the evening. Don't touch them until I get there. Tell Yin and Yang that they're not to cut anything off either man unless I say so, is that understood?"

"Perfectly. We'll have to move again of course."

"Then I'll make it quick tonight. I want everything packed by the time I'm back. Put Mr Shroom on to it. That's all." Woland switched the phone off and returned it to his jacket pocket. He yawned again, picked up his bag and stood up in the lay-by. As he got up, his foot stepped on something wet and red. Woland knelt, picked up the strip of flesh and flicked it over the hedge. Then, straightening up again, he threw his bag over his shoulder and began to walk slowly northwards.