Miss Toulouse Home for Unwanted Girls

Chapter 20

Mummy dearest meets the She devil Evelyn........

You do not live as long as I have without learning there is more than one way to skin a cat.

For me to destroy the coven, I would need to divide and conquer, silently poisoning them from within. My attempt to lure Phoenix away was simply a major clusterfuck, I underestimated them - a mistake I wouldn't be making again.

So I learnt my lesson and I did my due diligence, silently watching the ladies from afar, I knew it was too much of a risk for me to even step a few feet near their property, so I recruited a mutual friend to be my eyes - the mangy cat who I've since learnt is called Dexter (fitting name for evil, spiteful little sociopath).

After he had alerted me to their reunion, he returned to my garden the following evening, where I learnt he had previously fallen foul to Phoenix's fiery temper (no pun intended) and met his untimely end, so he was only too happy to become my familiar and do my bidding.

So he became my eyes and I was able to see all the comings and goings in their beloved safe haven, who was residing there, where they went - with this I was able to do a little digging myself about the ladies pasts.

This is why, I have found myself at this ungodly hour, here in the arse end of Kent, waiting for the doors to open at St. John's church for the Sunday service to start.

A revolted shudder ripples through my spine as I watch all the chattering congregation, bright eyed and bushy tailed, chewing at the bit to get inside like lambs to the slaughter.

"Fuck my life" I mutter as vomit bubbles away in my gut, at the hideous thought of spending hours upon hours being stuck in a stuffy church with screaming kids, swarms of pensioners that either stink of piss or lavender and the endless choir songs that penetrate your brain like a maggot devouring a rotten apple.

Finally the mighty wooden doors scream out in protest as they are swung open, the overjoyed masses flock eagerly forward as if entering the gates of heaven.

I watch the warm glow of light trickle over them as they enter, it streams down from the stained glass window that is perched above the door with the image of Christ looking down on his flock, for a second I think to myself "lucky bastards" with their pure and innocent faith and hope, I can't remember the last time I felt either of those things for anything or anyone.

But my brief moment of human emotion was interrupted when my "mark" storms past my car, she has a face so sour it could turn milk, her lips tight and clenched like a constipated arsehole, she is dressed up clearly in her Sunday best with her grandest oversized handbag and favourite pearls, while her pathetic husband trails slowly behind with his head hung down low, like a naughty school boy - I wonder to myself if she carries his testicles in that oversized bag of hers? he clearly doesn't have them.

She barks at him to hurry up and how they are going to be late, to which he meekly replies "yes dear".

I follow behind them and watch as she bustles her way to the front of the church, much to the annoyance of others and hushed disgruntled murmurs. There she sits herself directly in front, so she is looking up at the priest with gooey eyes like a teenage groupie does at a pop star in a concert, right before they scream and throw their knickers on stage.

I perch on the pews at the back of the church, so I can blend in with the masses and if necessary make a quick getaway.

As a witch over the years my kind have been about as welcome in a church as a fart in an elevator, while times have changed and people have evolved, the deep rooted fear of my true identity becoming revealed has never left me.