The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “We went to the off license about nineish. The bloke in there knows us.”

  “Where did you go from there?”

  “We came back here. We got back a bit before half past and didn’t leave the flat all night.” He regarded us inquisitively. “Do you know what he died of?”

  “It’s too early to say for sure,” I interjected, “but at this stage, it appears that Adam Upstart died from a diabetic coma.”

  Forshaw snorted softly. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He was hopeless with it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was always losing his insulin pens, or forgetting to collect his prescriptions.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “My dad owns Forshaw’s on the high street.”

  “Local pharmacy,” clarified PC Worthy.

  “What does this mean for The Wolves?” asked Urban-Smith.

  Forshaw sighed. “It means a greatest hits album and auditioning a bunch of nobheads to find a new singer.”

  “You think the band will continue?”

  “Of course.” Forshaw seemed perplexed. “Why wouldn’t we? We’ve worked hard to get where we are.”

  “Well, Miss Stone thought…” Urban-Smith paused while Forshaw groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “I know exactly what Rosie thinks.” Forshaw slumped against the back of the chair. “She thinks the Sun shines out of Adam’s arse. That the rest of us are hangers on.”

  “Is it not true that Adam wrote all of your songs?”

  “Ha!” Forshaw leaned forward again and wagged his finger. “He only wrote the lyrics. I wrote the music. All of it. And all the lyrics before Adam joined the band. Not that you’d know what the lyrics are. Have you heard Adam’s singing? It’s like a bear choking on its own vomit.”

  “Do you feel the band is better off without him?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. Adam’s a great frontman. He has real charisma. And all this Werewolf stuff, people go mental for that sort of thing. We wouldn’t be where we are now without it. All I’m saying is that it wasn’t all about Adam. Me and Justin started the band. Ethan and Graham joined us after that. We were playing together for two years before Adam joined.”

  “Will you still be moving to L.A?” I asked.

  “We were never going. Just another of Adam’s stupid ideas, like playing a gig in an abattoir or sacrificing a goat onstage. He was full of it, and Rosie just lapped it up.”

  “Did you know Adam was a Satan worshipper?”

  “Cain told me about it. All those black candles and stuff.”

  “Not of interest to you?”

  “It’s just another one of Adam’s phases. There was something new every few weeks. He’d be vegetarian, then he’d be into yodelling, then he’d take up golf, or archery. It was ridiculous. A few years back, he decided he wanted to keep reptiles. I came round one day, and the place was full of snakes and iguanas and all sorts. A few weeks later, he was bored with that; got rid of them all and decided to learn Russian instead.”

  “What happened to the snakes?”

  “No idea. Knowing Adam, he probably rolled them up and smoked them.”

  *

  The rest of the interview yielded little useful information. PC Worthy was taking the afternoon off to visit her uncle in hospital, so the interview of the remaining two Wolves, drummer Ethan Dunnet and bass guitarist Justin Rederring, was deferred until the following day. PC Worthy was kind enough to deposit me and Urban-Smith back at Ulysses’ cottage, and while I put the kettle on, Urban-Smith fired up his laptop and removed the cellophane from his new purchase, a copy of The Werewolves’ most recent album, ‘From the Grave to the Ladle.’

  The cover bore a picture of a snarling werewolf in a leather jacket, holding a pile of dripping entrails in one clawed hand whilst stirring a large cooking pot with the other. As Urban-Smith opened the CD case, out fluttered a flyer, advertising the band’s four previous albums. It was a single-sided flyer, with the front cover of each album illustrated, along with the track listing.

  The first album, the eponymously titled, ‘The Werewolves of Wottenham Wood,’ sported a werewolf’s snarling face, with a vicious-looking clawed hand projecting at the twelve, four and eight o’clock positions, the same design that I had seen at The Cock on Percy Lane.

  Their second album, entitled, ‘Let Them Eat Lead,’ showed the same werewolf toting a machine gun, and decked out in a lavish ballgown with tight bodice and billowing skirt, complete with pouf à-la Marie Antoinette.

  For the cover of the third album, ‘Songs for Swinging Lovers,’ our werewolf was nattily attired in a smart, single-breasted dark suit, a white shirt and pale tie, shiny black loafers and a fedora. He was leaning nonchalantly against a set of gallows from which the aforementioned lovers were hanging side-by-side.

  The cover of their penultimate album, ‘Corpus Delicious,’ was a little less subtle, showing the snarling werewolf wearing a bib, knife and fork in hand, tucking enthusiastically into a corpse in a casket.

  “I believe that this is an example of what is known as Death Metal,” I said, handing the flyer to Urban-Smith.

  “What is the title of the first song?” he asked, as he inserted the CD into his laptop.

  I turned the CD case over. “Black Chamber of Necrophilia.”

  The song began with a chorus of electric guitars playing a dramatic sequence of minor and augmented chords, which reminded me a little of a Shostakovichian symphony. The chords ascended to a crescendo, finishing on a minor seventh, and for a brief moment, it appeared that there may be a palatable song on the horizon. The last chord began to fade, and then the song proper commenced in earnest.

  I recall many years ago being caught in a heavy downpour whilst out walking in the Yorkshire Dales, and seeking shelter in an old corrugated iron barn. The frenetic drum tattoo that hurtled out of the laptop’s speakers recalled that experience vividly to my mind.

  A few seconds later, what sounded like at least a dozen other musicians joined in and began racing one another to see who could reach the end of the song the soonest. One of the assorted musicians had elected to bring his St Bernard with him to the studio, and the beast began growling and barking into the microphone.

  “Rurgh, rurgh, rurgh,” it barked. “Grrr, ruff, bruurgh!”

  I listened intently for what felt like an eternity. “Is that Adam Upstart?” I asked incredulously. “What on Earth is he saying?”

  “One moment, Rupert. I have the lyrics here somewhere.” Urban-Smith removed the booklet from the CD case and began to read;

  “Your body rots before me, the maggots crawl and feast,

  I lick my lips and tremble, I call the savage beast.

  My lust is rising in me, the darkness in my heart.

  I **** your gored cadaver until it splits apart.

  Chorus: Welcome to the black chamber of necrophilia.

  Welcome to the black chamber of necrophilia.

  Welcome to the black chamber of necrophilia.

  Welcome to the black chamber of necrophilia.”

  He stared at me agog, then closed his eyes and began to rock in a silent mirth. Of course, laughter is more infectious than Ebola, and as the first guitar solo started, the tears were running down our faces, and it took almost until the song’s end to regain our composure.

  “If I am ever to marry, Fairfax, I should like my wife to walk down the aisle to this song.”

  “She would have to put on a fair turn of speed to match the tempo. She would probably end up hurtling past the vicar and into the font.”

  I perused the list of song titles. “Listen to this song-list,” said I. “Black Chamber of Necrophilia; Your Body is My Temple; Orgy of Dismemberment; Render me Lifeless; Undead Slaves of the Cannibal Child.”

  “Do you think they’re available for children’s parties and Barmitzvahs?” Urban-Smith switched off the CD player and the ghastly cacophony ceased.

  “Thank heavens for that.” I breathed
a sigh of relief.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day, Rupert?”

  “I was planning to feed the ducks, then indulge in a spot of reading.”

  “I’m afraid that the ducks will have to fend for themselves today. I require of you a favour.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. I am expecting a delivery at any time, and I promised that I would take it straight down to Mrs Denford. However, I must return to Scragnell Police Station to review the Upstarts’ records.”

  “What of this delivery?” I enquired. “Could you not send it onwards to Chuffnell Mews by courier?”

  “It is too valuable to be entrusted to anyone else.”

  “As you wish, Fairfax. I shall postpone my mallardic interactions until the morrow.”

  I spent the next half hour or so responding to emails until I was distracted by the sound of rapping upon the front door, accompanied by a dog’s frenzied yapping. Urban-Smith was evidently deep in thought at his laptop, so I answered the door to a rotund lady in her fifties with blue-rinsed hair in a short perm, clad in a long dark coat and Wellington’s.

  At her feet, the Bichon Frisé, Gonzáles, snuffled about the front step. He evidently recognised me, for the barking ceased, and he proceeded to jump up at my legs, coating my twills with muddy paw prints.

  “Gonzáles!” cried our visitor and pulled back on his leash, causing him to rear up on his hind legs and wave his front paws in an effort to reach me once more. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s quite a handful. I do wish that I could keep him, but my Persian, Mr Waffles, simply won’t tolerate a dog in the house.”

  “Ah, Mrs Twitch.” Urban-Smith had come to investigate. “I see that our parcel has arrived intact.”

  “Parcel?” I swivelled to face him. “Surely not, Fairfax.”

  “I’m sorry, Rupert,” said he, “but once Gonzáles’ predicament became known to Mrs Denford, his fate was sealed. You are to deliver him forthwith to number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, and Mrs Denford will claim guardianship.”

  As I opened my mouth to protest, Mrs Twitch pushed the end of the leash into my left hand. Small paws scrabbled against my lower thigh.

  “You are so kind, Mr Urban-Smith,” gushed Mrs Twitch. “It would have broken Edna’s heart to see him in a shelter. God bless you.”

  And with that, she bade us farewell, leaving me in a foul mood and even fouler trouserware.

  *

  For a charge of just a few guineas, I was permitted to bring Gonzáles with me on the train journey from Cambridge to London, during which the little Bichon attracted some very welcome attention from an impressively endowed young lady who insisted on repeatedly bending to shower affection upon him. As a result, the journey seemed to fly by, leaving me wondering why I had not sought to acquire a dog far sooner.

  My attitude changed somewhat after we disembarked, and left the station. Although less than a mile from King’s Cross to Chuffnell Mews, the walk was severely hampered by Gonzáles’ insistence upon stopping every few yards to examine the pavements, lampposts, discarded cigarette packets and anything else that took his fancy.

  Mrs Denford, however, was enraptured by our arrival.

  “Oooh!” she crooned. “What a bonny wee boy!” She scooped Gonzáles up and gave him an investigative sniff. “Yuck. It’s straight off to the bath for you.”

  Bath was evidently a familiar word in Gonzáles’ vocabulary, and at the mention of it, he began to wriggle and whine, but Mrs Denford’s grip was true, and his efforts were in vain as she tramped up the stairs, cooing and chirping.

  Still clad in my mud-stained twills, I followed in their wake in order to change into clean attire. Dinner time was fast approaching, and I was aquiver in anticipation of Mrs Denford’s incomparable culinary skills, but first I had to address the urgent matter of charming my way back into Nell’s good books.

  I parked myself at the kitchen table and unsheathed my mobile telephone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Nell. It’s me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to apologise for the other night.”

  “You’ve had all weekend to apologise, and couldn’t be bothered.”

  “It has been a rather hectic few days. Urban-Smith and I am on a case.”

  “I’m not interested in your excuses. Now, if you have nothing else to say, I’m very busy. Some of us have to go to work.”

  This did not seem like a promising start, but we Harkers are tenacious once we have the bit between our teeth. “Please, Nell. Give me a chance to put across my side of things.”

  There was a brief pause, although it felt like some considerable time. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

  “I need some time to think, Rupert. I need to decide where this is going. I suggest you do the same. I’m going to work now.”

  “Should I call you tomorrow?”

  Another pause.

  “Don’t call me again, Rupert. I’ll let you know if I want to talk to you.”

  I held the telephone to my ear for a little while, but she had said all that there was to say. I laid the handset on the table and stared at it awhile, willing it to ring, but it did not.

  From upstairs floated the sound of a hairdryer and Mrs Denford crooning, ‘A Berk Sang in Nightingale Square,’ or some similar ballad. Presently the noise ceased, and there came both a heavy clumping and a lighter pattering upon the stairwell, indicating the approach of my landlady and newest housemate.

  Gonzáles had been transformed. The little Bichon Frisé looked like an albino’s afro, his alabaster curls light and fluffy as whipped meringue, and a scarlet ribbon tied in a bow about his neck. Evidently his mood was less effulgent than his bouffant; his tail was between his legs, his ears hung limply down, and if ever a dog were to sport a scowl, Gonzáles sported one now.

  “How does he look, Doctor?” enquired Mrs Denford.

  “Furious.”

  “Nonsense,” she insisted. “He’s as gay as a scoutmaster’s woggle.”

  “Grrr!” Gonzáles confirmed. However, all animosity was forgotten when Mrs Denford retrieved three chops from the refrigerator and began preparing the vegetative accoutrements.

  “Oh, before I forget, Doctor. I have left the post on the mantel for you.”

  I thanked her and went to collect said post. For me, there were the usual journals, circulars and the like, most of which I consigned immediately to the dustbin. For Urban-Smith, there were several arcane publications of which I knew little (Phantasma, Psychic Express and Men’s Yandring being the highlights), several unimportant looking letters and a flat package with neither stamp, postmark nor return address.

  I returned to the kitchen and held said package aloft. “What’s this Mrs Denford?”

  “That came for Fairfax this morning. One of those motorcycle chappies brought it.”

  I thought no more of the matter, being more concerned with my chop, which was sat staring at me from the kitchen counter. Gonzáles was of the same mind, and had parked himself in the centre of the kitchen floor, following Mrs Denford’s every move.

  My mobile telephone rang, and I lunged for it, sighing with disappointment when I realised that the caller was Urban-Smith rather than Nell.

  “Hello, Fairfax.”

  “Rupert. I trust that you both arrived safe and sound.”

  “Yes, no problems. I’m going to have a spot of dinner, then head back on the eight o’clock.” I indicated the gathering of postal correspondence on the table, even though he couldn’t see it. "There’s a package here for you."

  “How exciting! Be a good chap and bring it back with you.”

  Mrs Denford began rattling the pots and pans as was her way when she wished to indicate that a meal was reaching fruition.

  “Must go, Fairfax. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll see you tonight. Toodle-pip!”

  ◆◆◆

  14. The Urban Dude

  Having feasted, ablated and chan
ged, I made my way back to King’s Cross and caught the seven forty-five back to Cambridge, and thence a taxicab to Ulysses’ cottage, arriving a little before half past nine.

  The lights were on and the door unlocked. As I stepped across the threshold, I noticed a movement from the living room, the door to which was half-open (or half-closed if one were of a pessimistic bent). Ulysses’ cat, Ajax, was rolling around on the living room carpet, his paws in the air, and a relaxed air about him. As I opened the door fully, I was confronted by a lanky young gentleman, clad in an enormous, garishly coloured T-shirt and short trousers, colourful running shoes upon his feet, and a peaked cap, which had been turned about by one hundred and eighty degrees so that the peak protruded posteriorly. His shoulders were stooped, his hair hung down across his brow, and he shuffled slowly from foot to foot.

  His slack jaw and heavy lids were suggestive of one who had been imbibing the imbibements to excess, yet he smelled not of alcohol, but of some sweet herbal mixture that clung to him like a perfume.

  “Duuuuuuuuuude,” he drawled. “Are you the Urban dude?”

  “Indeed not,” I replied. “It appears that he is elsewhere. May I help you?”

  “No, dude. I need the Urban dude, real bad.” He sniffed and wiped his nose against the back of his arm. “Duuuuuuuude,” he added for emphasis.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Young man,” I chastised, “have you been smoking marijuana?”

  “Duuuude.” A moronic grin spread across his face.

  “I think it best if you come back later,” I suggested. “Leave me your name and contact number, and I shall ensure that Urban-Dude…. I mean Urban-Smith contacts you upon his return.”

  The visitor shook his head sadly. “No can do, little dude. Gotta see the Urban dude, reeeeeeeeeal bad.” He turned away from me to make a closer inspection of the picture that was hanging above the mantel.

  I gritted my teeth and tried not to step on Ajax, who had rolled the entire length of the room and back during this exchange, but had now climbed to his feet and was rubbing himself affectionately against the interloper’s leg.

  “Now look here, young man,” I said sternly, “I simply must insist that you leave.”