I need to report… something. I can’t go to the police, I – You’re supposed to be independent and w-w-well, well, I’ve got to risk it. People need to know. They need to know what’s happening, what they’re doing, and I don’t know how much time I’ve got left.

I work as a caterer. High-end private functions, silver service, that – that kind of thing. It’s my own company, and I-I’ve managed to build up a decent reputation in the right circles.

We get called in for the… really high-end stuff. The, the kind of event where the – the guest list is so rich that you’ve never even heard of them. There’s a big difference between “extravagance” and “elegance,” and. And we sell the latter.

We’re not a big operation though. There were only six permanent staff including myself. We do hire in fixed-term waiting staff and – (breath) other contractors but even so… I knew these people. I worked with them for years and they didn’t deserve what happened to them.

We got the call a couple of months ago for a fairly small event at Wychwood Hall in the Cotswolds. Apparently, they had a family shoot and wanted us to prepare the game. Normally that would be pheasant or partridge and we’d just swap it for stuff we prepared off-site since no one could ever tell the difference – but they were really explicit about it being larger game, and wanting to know whose kill they were eating.

That meant a lot more prep time and equipment – but they insisted, and at this level you don’t get to tell the client no, just how much extra it will cost.

We set up the cooking gazebo during the early afternoon, in the rear gardens on the butler’s instructions. The house itself was a massive sprawling Elizabethan thing with pristine flowerbeds and prim lawns that ran right up to the surrounding woodland. It wasn’t – usual to be given center stage like that, but I figured the client fancied themself a foodie, and just wanted to see the prep. Thankfully we brought the flashy gear, just in case.

Normally, you’d expect the shoot to have already been well underway by the time we arrived, but people were only just arriving in their tinted Range Rovers and Rolls.

I didn’t say anythin’, but I made damn sure everyone got a head start on the veg and the sauces because at this rate, it would be a miracle if they’d be eating before nine.

Another hour passed with a couple more cars trickling in, but still no one had even set out. Instead, I could see them through the leaded windows, just watching us work.

Finally, after another half hour I had the house staff fetch the butler. He eventually came out, dour as before, and I told him that unless he knew something I didn’t, there was going to be a distinct lack of venison for tonight’s venison medallions.

He just gave me this look, told me to “prepare,” and then headed back inside.

Obviously that pissed me right off, but what can you do? They’d paid for the day, so we just hunkered down and looked busy. Finally, as the sun was starting to set a bloody red behind the woodland, the guns came out with their entourage, all tweed, Winchesters and dogs and in front of them marched this… matriarch.

I don’t know how else to describe her. This big, imposing, like – some Roman statue brought to life and given a gun. I kept thinking of my army days, cooking for the top brass. She had the same eyes, like they didn’t see people any more, just “assets” and “resistance.”

And if that wasn’t enough, she had this huge custom rifle over her shoulder, like an antique elephant gun or something. There was no way it was UK legal. The thing looked like it could take out a jeep, never mind a stag! And it wasn’t gilded or anything, it was dull and plain-looking despite its massive size, and you just knew that this was a gun for killing with, not showing off.

It was her domain, and she reeked of power and authority in every sense of the word, and when she spoke they all listened.

She had the guns all lined up facing us with their dogs at heel, and then they all just stood there, watching the sun set as their staff and security all headed back into the house, leaving us alone with them. That was when I knew something was really wrong.

The woman stepped forward with her dogs by her side and faced me with this bright and wide smile splitting her face under her electric blue eyes and gunmetal-grey hair. Then she just locked eyes with me and began to carefully load the rifle without looking, punctuating each word with another cartridge.

“Are you prepared?” she asked quietly.

“As we can be,” I replied. “But–”

Then she raised her hand to silence me, and - it was as though she had slapped a gag in my mouth. I couldn’t even think of disobeying her, the words just – died in my throat.

She returned to the group her dogs flanking her the whole way and her silhouette outlined in the blood-red dusk light. I couldn’t make out any of the other’s faces, dazzled as I was by the light.

Then she stood tall and proud and said with just the tiniest hint of anticipation: “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

As one, the hunters raised their rifles, and as one, they levelled them at us as we stood transfixed under our gazebo.

There’s a very – specific feeling you get when you’re staring down a barrel at close range. First, the world gets very sharp and bright. Then the horizon sort of shrinks around you ‘til it’s no wider than the dark hole aiming straight at you. It had been a long time since I’d felt like that, but it was still so familiar. Too familiar.

The woman hadn’t raised her own weapon. Instead she called as though directing a firing squad:

“Hunt.”

None of us replied. None of us even breathed. We stood completely still and silent, the only noise being the gentle breeze through the trees and the slight hiss of the red wine reduction boiling over beside me. There wasn’t even any birdsong.

Then I realized. She wasn’t talking to the other guns. She was talking to us.

After seconds that felt like hours, the woman seemed to grow impatient. Finally, she sighed and repeated: “Hunt” – before shouldering her rifle, sighting and then pulling the trigger without hesitation.

There was a deafening gunshot that stabbed at my eardrums, leaving them ringing, and then a sudden clatter of someone falling to the ground behind me, dragging utensils down with them. I couldn’t turn to see who was hit, but I-I think it was Steven.

He was only twenty-three. I know it was a headshot though. You don’t forget that sound.

Without lowering the rifle, she chambered another round and re-sighted, this time at – me. She smiled greedily then pumped her eyebrows just once. Playfully. “Hunt!”

And this time, I understood. Without taking my eyes from her I reached out and gently closed my hand around the handle of the cleaver in front of me. It shone, pristine and unblemished, ready for its bloody work. Then, slowly, so slowly, I raised it overhead, bracing myself for what followed.

The woman grinned widely, her finger caressing the trigger. I brought my hand down sharply, smashing the cleaver into the face of Marcus, our saucier. He couldn’t even cry out as it cleft deep into the base of his neck, his arterial blood gushing out and down into the overly-hot pot, releasing a plume of acrid iron-smelling steam.

I looked down at his carcass and then wiped the blood from my brow and yanked the blade free with a crunch before turning to the rest of my staff.

They ran.

The party ate well that night. All told, it – didn’t take long, maybe a half hour at most? None of them got far. I caught Debra as she tried to hide up in a tree. Fair play to her, almost made it up there despite being in her fifties. Mira tripped over a rabbit hole in the darkness. I think she tried to beg, but I couldn’t make out the words.

The only one who gave me any real trouble was Boris. He was a big guy, nearly six five, and that’s a hell of a size difference, even with my training. But it wasn’t enough. I had killed before, and he hadn’t. He hesitated, and that was that.

As I was packing up, the woman shook my hand and complimented me. Then the butler handed me a thick brown envelope. It was full of cash and a note written in elegant cursive with just one word:

“Run.”

And I did. Can’t stay anywhere too long, can’t stop moving. I keep hearing dogs barking, and I don’t know if it’s just some pet or –

I thought about handing myself in to the police, but that just feels like trapping myself in a dead end. So I’m getting out of the country. First the Channel Tunnel and then keep going until I’ve gone far enough that she can’t –

Wait…

Oh no.

Well run, dearie. Well run…