 I don't have a shotgun or a mullet. Both are frowned on in England where I live and work. I try and blend in. If you saw me as I went about my business, you might think I was a solicitor or worked in finance. I favor a dark suit, a pastel colored shirt and a tie with a Windsor nut. I prefer brown shoes to black. A few days ago, I was driving at five miles below the speed limit in my hybrid car. I had a picture of the individual I was looking for on the passenger seat. They'd broken the terms of the license, which allowed them to remain at liberty. I was going to call time on their freedom. And for this, I would be paid a fee. The profession I practice has different names across the world. My favorite was bounty hunter, though that intimated dusty high streets, saloon bars and desperados, rather than one way roads, tea shops, and the rather unusual types I went after. I checked the picture one more time. It was a pen and ink sketch rather than a photograph, but was expertly done. Satisfied I had the likeness absolutely clear in my mind. I indicated right and pulled into the graveyard. Streaks of red had appeared in the winter sky. It was close to dusk. That wasn't good. I'd had a very pleasant afternoon at the club. I'd peruse the newspaper, played cards and enjoyed a fine cigar. Perhaps I should not, though, have ordered that last pot of tea. Even running later than ideal, I would not rush. I could see the mausoleum my research had told me. The fugitive was holing up in just ahead. Careful not to black the access road, I parked up next to it and climbed out. The building must once have been grand looking, but now its stone was a dirty gray. I reached back into the car to get my briefcase, then went inside. The mausoleum's door creaked and groaned, not loud enough, I hoped, to disturb the fugitive. A few last traces of daylight reached inside through fat cracks in the wall and ceiling. I needed to act before they slipped away. A sarcophagus sat in the middle of the floor. It too had seen better days. I took a deep breath, opened up my briefcase, and selected a number five steak. It was sturdy, sharp, excellent for close contact work. I lifted the lid of the sarcophagus. The coffin lid below was not closed. The fugitive looked middle aged. He had thinning brown hair, fat cheeks. His eyes were closed. Perfect. I drove the steak into his heart and stood back as the body collapsed in on itself. I returned to the contents of my briefcase, taking out the portable vacuum cleaner. This had actually come with a car, but I had soon found a better use for it. I turned it on and sucked up the pile of dust that was now all that remained of the fugitive. That done, I put the steak in the vacuum in my briefcase and headed back to the car. It was time to go and collect my fee. Thirty minutes later, a permit displayed in my front windshield, I parked outside an imposing mansion house in the city. The ministry was one of the oldest branches of the government in the country, and by far the most secret. I doubted if even the prime minister of the day knew of its existence. I identified myself to an official at the entrance and set off walking down a long corridor until I reached a door. I took a deep breath, knocked, and entered. The nameplate on the door said Florence T. Butterworth. There is no reason why a beautiful woman should care about her appearance. At the end of the day, it is only society that says she should, the same society that defines what beauty is. I always got the feeling that Florence T. Butterworth did not give a damn what society thought about her. Her nicotine stained fingers rested on a wide oak desk. Her greasy hair hung limply around her face. Dan Drift covered the shoulders of her wrinkled navy blouse. The smell of alcohol drifted from her wrapped in the scent of cigarettes and stale sweat. My heart beat faster in my chest. I'd always been drawn to the unique and I had a thing for Florence T. Butterworth. My hands shaking slightly because I was in her presence. I took out the pouch I'd emptied the dust and do and placed it on her desk. Ah, yes, the right honorable Wilford, she said, picking up the pouch and carrying it over to a safe nestled discreetly in the panelled wooden wall. Packaged blood was no longer good enough for him. She continued. So he began to stray. She opened the safe and placed the pouch inside. It simply won't do, won't do at all. She swung the safe door shut and turned to face me. Now I have another little job for you. She held out a new piece of paper. I thanked her, placed it in my briefcase and left. Back in my car. I looked at the document. There was a name and address and a photograph. There was only one lycanthrope at Liberty in England on the books of the ministry. He'd been following the terms of his license by being locked in a cage for the first few nights every month. Or so he claimed. The partial remains of animals had been found nearby. The flesh had been torn from their bones. It was time for me to bring this wayward creature in. I peered out of my car window. The full moon shone in a cloudless sky. I'd tutted daylight would have been better, but there's no time like the present. So I tutted again and started the engine. Buildings slipped by and soon the bustling metropolis fell away and I was traveling through the countryside. Trees rose behind hedgerows as the road narrowed into a single lane. I reached the turning which led to the lycanthrope's address according to my satellite navigation system. Gravel crunched below the wheels as I left tarmac behind as well. The trees had cleared and I was surrounded by open fields which should have been deserted. I slowed down and peered into the darkness. I thought I could see lights, movement, and yes, there was something out there. I stopped the car to watch and wait. They walked in single file. Crude masks hid their faces and each carried a burning torch. There were around two dozen of them, more than enough for an angry mob. I tensed. They'd not seen me yet, but they were coming closer and then they turned and headed for a gatepost that would lead them away from me. I realized I'd been gripping the steering wheel tightly and I forced myself to relax. They were up to no good. That much was for sure. Hoping it was nothing to do with the lycanthrope, I started the engine and trundled on down the track. Around 10 minutes or so later, I came to a house that stood in its own grounds. It was the type of place which could have been featured on the cover of a magazine extolling the English country lifestyle, apart from the fact that its downstairs windows were shattered and someone had spray painted monster on the front door. It appeared the mob had already paid a visit. I swore under my breath I'd been planning on bringing the lycanthrope back to the ministry. I would receive my fee and it could be safely housed in one of their cages and assessed. Not only was there now the potential problem that the lycanthrope would have fled the mob and be on the loose, there was also the danger that its true nature was now publicly known. The veil of secrecy that the ministry worked so hard to maintain allowed the good citizens of this country to sleep safely in their beds. I needed to contact the ministry as soon as possible. But when I took out my mobile, I had no reception. I decided to go into the house and see how bad the situation was. Then I would floor the accelerator all the way back. I knocked on the front door, tried the bell, but there was no answer. So I tried pushing it. It swung open silently. I stepped into a hallway bathed in darkness. I could see pale light in one of the rooms it led to and hurried that way. I reached the doorway and shook my head sadly. The room was dominated by a large wire mesh cage. The door to the cage was open and in it lay the body of a wolf. Blood pooled on the ground around it. As I moved closer, I saw that it was still breathing. Perhaps I was not too late, I thought. Then realized there was something skulking in one of the darkened corners of the room. My mobile was useless as a phone, but the torch still worked. I turned it on and its beam revealed a young woman sitting against the wall. She was hugging herself and her face was stained with tears. She looked up at me with wide, scared eyes. I thought they'd come back. She said, the mob. I saw them heading away. I replied in as calm a voice as I could muster. But we need to get both of you out of here as soon as we can. I know a safe place. She began to sob. All we ever wanted was to be left in peace. My brother was trying. He really was. He didn't choose to become a werewolf. He didn't choose to live like this. Her words trailed out as she looked at the figure in the cage. It was turning now as its breathing slowed and finally it grew still. The wolf was gone and the man had returned. He was dead. I'm sorry, I said. A sister's love had clearly driven her to see past the thing her sibling had become and I thought the least he deserved now was a little respect. I went into the cage. I would carry his body back to the car and take him and his grieving sister to the ministry. I knelt next to the corpse and saw the cut that sliced open his throat. There was something almost clinical about it. It was not a killing wound a mob would inflict. I turned around. The young woman was no longer weeping. A smile crept across her face and in her hand she held a long vicious looking knife. It was simple in the end. She said those fools from the village had no idea what had killed the farmer's animals and were thrashing about in the night with their stupid masks and torches. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what I was doing. I threw my brother a lump of meat dosed with sedative, then sliced his neck open from ear to ear. And just in case any suspicion fell on me, I defaced the door and brick the windows so the mob would take the blame. Why? I asked. Because I was tired. She snapped back. Tired of being the nursemaid and jailer to a beast. Tired of being stuck in this house. It'll fetch a tidy price on the open market and then I can leave here. I can be free. But first there's the little matter of another interfering man, one the mob also killed in their blind rage. She began to advance on me with a knife. She was no werewolf, no vampire or zombie, but a deep dark rage burnt in her eyes. Sweat began to trickle down my neck. Perhaps she was the most dangerous monster of all. A human being that is prepared to kill without mercy. She raised the knife. Good evening. A voice said. I turned. The voice sounded familiar. Startled and relieved, I said, Florence T. Butterworth. I had a bad feeling after you left the ministry to come here, so I followed you. She said, then turned her attention to the young woman. Put the knife down. She said in a commanding voice. No, the young woman said back. I'll gut you. And then him. Florence T. Butterworth merely smiled at this and said, some might call the feeling I had intuition. I prefer instinct. Ancient animal instinct. She began to shake as if she was at the epicenter of her own personal earthquake. Then she began to thrash around and her unwashed hair flew from side to side. It seemed to be spreading. She was sprouting thick, dark hair everywhere. In all of a sudden, I could see rather a lot as she was bursting free of her clothes. I averted my gaze, but I couldn't help myself. Peeking through my fingers, I saw a snout, long yellow fangs from which drool trailed, eyes blazing with primal energy. And then she howled. I went weak at the knees. The young woman dropped the knife and fled. I looked up at Florence T. Butterworth. I had no idea you were a shape shifter. I said, she just stared at me and snarled, then crashed through a window. She was gone back to her desk at the ministry where new mysteries awaited us both. I straightened my tie and walked out into the night.