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A CHRISTMAS PILGRIMBy Neil DaviesFrom an idea by Cathy Davies
The old man grumbled to himself as he shuffled through the slush on thepavement, worn shoes squelching as ice-cold water seeped in with each step. Hepointedly ignored the carollers singing 'Jingle Bells' outside a brightly lit shopdoorway, was equally disdainful of the glittering window displays and the hurryinglate-night shoppers, all wrapped in coats and gloves and warm hats.He felt every icy breeze through the thin, torn jacket and old T-shirt hangingloosely on his gaunt, emaciated frame.It wasn't that he hated Christmas, but it was an inconvenience, a trouble. Therest of the year he could lie low, hide from most people, live his own, solitaryexistence. True, he would be hungry most of the time, but he preferred it that way.The hunger kept him focussed. When he was well fed he changed, became a differentperson. Even his personality changed, and he didn't like what he became."Sorry."He looked up at the woman he had walked into and smiled, almost laughed, atthe automatic politeness that led her to apologise, even as she stared at him in disgustand horror."Fuck off lady!"He didn't watch, but he knew she would be pushing fast away from him,turning to look back. She probably felt nauseous, and that did make him laugh.He hadn't looked in a mirror since last Christmas, but he didn't need to. Everytime he touched his face he felt the sagging skin, dripping like melted plastic off hisbones. Not even the beard he allowed to grow could hide the horror of his ill-fittingflesh. Once he had tried to shave, but chunks of flesh had come away with the hairand it had taken months to heal. He had never tried since.His stomach growled, reminding him of his hunger. This was the one time of year he looked for food.No, not looked.
 Hunted 
.He shuffled further through the crowds, finding a certain grim amusement inthe way they parted in front of him, afraid to touch him.So much for the Christmas spirit.Still, if they knew what he fed on, what he hunted, they would be on the otherside of the street.That thought made him laugh so hard he fell into a coughing fit, stopping,bending forward, spitting phlegm into the dirty-white slush at his feet.He lifted the black plastic sack he carried in his right fist, shifted it to his leftto balance the agony that shot through his bent, claw-like fingers, and turned into thealleyway that opened on his right.He knew it well. This was a good hunting ground.As the bright, Christmas sounds of the main shopping street faded behind him,he heard the less joyful, but more welcoming, sounds of hushed voices up ahead.He did not hesitate in his shuffling gait, did not care if he was heard or seen.Why would they bother about a crumbling old man like him? They were young. They
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