Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

He knew he ought to do better. His lack of originality depressed him. He lost sleep trying to think of new challenges. In the bleakness of the night, all he could see in his mind’s eye were the faces of Class 5, mouths downturned, eyes glazed in boredom. It wasn’t as if they lived by the sea, or in the country, where adventures were to be had. No circuses ever came through their suburban town. No pop concerts. No marathons. Not even Billy Graham.

The idea, when it came, almost escaped Mitch. Like a butterfly it fluttered within range and eluded his grasp. He captured it clumsily at the third attempt.

Over breakfast one Monday, submerged in gloom at the prospect of another meeting in the rec, he failed to hear his father the first time.

“Wake up, lad.”

“Wha’?”

“I was saying that somebody slipped a leaflet about the fete under my windscreen wiper — in my own garage.”

Mitch did his best to produce a sunny smile. “That was me, Dad. I had a few left over. Me and some of the kids—”

“Some of my friends and I.”

“We were going round the car park Saturday.”

Mr. Mitchell’s eyebrows bobbed up. “Helping the church fete committee? Making yourselves useful for a change? Whose idea was that — yours?”

“Em, one of the others, I think.”

“Never mind. I like it. I won’t be going to the fete myself, but I approve the spirit of the venture.” Mr. Mitchell had long nursed an ambition to see his son as a boy scout, but Mitch, with a distaste for uniforms, had refused to join.

“Why aren’t you going, Dad?”

“On principle, son. I don’t approve of a certain gentleman they’ve invited to open it.”

“Sam Coldharbour?” Mitch was stunned. He had long been convinced that his father revered people who achieved things. Sam Coldharbour had climbed Everest and walked across America. He had boxed for Britain in the Olympics. He was the most famous person for miles around. Moreover, the Mitchells hadn’t missed a fete in Mitch’s lifetime. Mitch’s father had twice been chairman of the committee. “Don’t you like him, Dad?”

“It isn’t a question of like or dislike. I don’t know the man personally. It’s just that I’m unwilling to shake the hand of a man who behaves as he does.”

“Now, Frank,” said Mitch’s mother in the voice she used to stop conversations that threatened to offend.

“What does he do?” asked Mitch.

“Not over breakfast,” said Mitch’s mother.

“The man may be a hero to some, but he isn’t to me,” Mitch’s father insisted on saying, more to Mrs. Mitchell than the boy. “He isn’t even discreet with his philandering.”

“What’s philandering, Dad?”

“It’s misconduct.”

“Frank, please!”

“But it’s true. The man preys on women — ladies, I mean.”

“Prays — like in church?”

“No, you stupid boy. I used the word ‘prey’ in the sense of hunting.”

“Hunting — like a tiger?”

“A wolf, if you ask me.”

“Frank!”

At the rec an hour or so later, Mitch related to an enthralled audience what he had learned about Sam Coldharbour, the man chosen to open the church fete. “My dad calls him a wolf.”

“A werewolf?” said Roger, eyes popping.

“I said a wolf. He goes philandering. Any of you lot heard of philandering before? No? I thought not. Well, I’ll have to tell you, won’t I? It’s hunting ladies. Mr. Coldharbour goes around hunting ladies.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

“What does he do if he catches one?” Podge asked.

There was some coarse laughter. Class 5 knew what men and women were supposed to do together.

“You’re wrong,” said Mitch, with his regard for the literal truth. “What do wolves do if they catch people?”

“Kill them?” said Clive, after a pause. Class 5 also knew a lot about horror and fantasy.

“Eat them?” said Daley.

Mitch opened his hands in a gesture that seemed to say there was no accounting for the things grownups got up to.

Morgan pulled a face and said, “Ugh.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Danny. “People don’t eat each other in Worcester Park.”

Mitch rose to the challenge he had anticipated ever since Danny had gatecrashed. “Why not?” he demanded. “He didn’t always live here.”

“He’d have to be a cannibal, and you can see he isn’t,” said Danny. “How many of you lot have seen Mr. Coldharbour?”

Half a dozen hands were hoisted.

“Well, then,” she said, as if the matter were settled. She walked to the swing and gave it a push.

Mitch was about to defend his assertion by claiming that anything his dad said was the truth when he thought of a better riposte. “He’s travelled all over the world, Sam Coldharbour has. He’s been up in the mountains and through jungles and on desert islands. He must have met some cannibals on one of his expeditions. If a cannibal asks you to come to a feast, you don’t say no. That’s how it started, I reckon.”

“You reckon?” said Podge.

“Yes,” said Mitch with decision. “I reckon. He joined in a cannibal feast.”

Clive came to his aid. “And then he got a taste for it. Once you’ve tasted human flesh, everything else tastes like old socks.”

“Podge’s socks,” said Roger, and everyone laughed, including Podge. They needed to laugh.