It was not a perfect crime. It was not secret, neither was it silent. The silence was in the build-up. He waited in the bushes by the side of the path. He lay in the undergrowth, unmoving. Any twitch of his lithe body might disturb the delicate bents and fescues, the slightest movement dislodge the fluffy dandelion heads, betraying his hiding place. The sun was warm upon his back and if he had not been so intent on his purpose this fine morning he might have dozed, taking languid pleasure from the day.
A fleeting movement broke his reverie. His victim had arrived, tripping lightly along the path, a graceful creature dressed smartly, neatly. The victim stopped to preen, to make sure that nothing was out of place. A thing of fine plumage strutting its stuff. In the foliage behind the bushes, body tensed, he gathered himself, bunching muscles, judging the distance with practised skill.
Then he sprang, beating his victim to the earth, holding with a grip of steel, pausing to savour the exquisite moment. A breath, a heartbeat, then with savage ferocity it began; the ripping, tearing frenzy, biting, scratching, blood flying. Then all was stillness, silence.
He smelled the heady scent of blood, tasted it coppery on his tongue, felt the warmth of it ebbing away. He slid away to cleanse himself; remove the tell-tale marks of murder, of butchery, of an almost sensual pleasure. Once again his base instincts had been let free; he was sated. Now for a while they would be curbed, he could meet society face to face. If he hurried he would be in time for lunch.
