I go to church to prey.
Mainly on middle-aged widows and divorcees. Sometimes young spinsters. Lonely. I can tell by the way they dress and look at me.
They see a MAN in smart casual gear, a cross on a gold chain showing under an open- necked shirt. Clean shaven – a must – close-cropped hair, greying at the temples. Smiling eyes and perfect white teeth.
No wedding ring.
Until they realise that they’re the fish. Trapped and smelling of fear. Bulging eyes, clammy skin that I caress with a razor sharp knife, and...
Arms hacked off at the elbow and legs at the knee.
...‘What are you reading, darling?’
I smile at her. ‘A love story. Do you want me to tell you about it?’
She nods and snuggles up close. I can smell her fragrance. It’s not fishy.