She was twirling in the summer rain, out on the Library lawn. Her arms stretched out. Her head cocked back. Laughing. The sun’s rays broke the clouds and made the air smell like warm dew. As she spins around, she stumbles. Dizzy. From where I was, she looked cute. (This was, of course, quite a while before I ever saw her naked, at which point I reassessed her as more ‘hot’ than ‘cute.)

I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.

‘I made this,’ she said.

‘The flower?’

‘No, silly. The rain!’

I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.

I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.

I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.

It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.

This was how I met Astrid.

When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.

Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.

This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.

I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.

‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.

‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’

‘And you saw her kill each one?’

‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’

He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.

I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’

‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.

‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’

‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’

‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’

‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’

‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’

‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’

‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’

‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’

I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.

‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.

‘See her what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’

‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’

‘And you’re OK with this?’

‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’

‘And what about when you have children?’

‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’

‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’

‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’

‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’

‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’

‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’

‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’

‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’

‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’

‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’

‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’

‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’

‘But you can’t, Father.’

‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’

‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’

‘No it can’t be!’

‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’

‘What?!’

‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’

He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.

‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’

I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.

I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.