The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “Come now, Rupert,” he replied without turning around. “Surely this is no way to greet a guest.”

  “Fairfax,” I gasped.

  He spun about, whipping away his cap and causing Ajax to startle. “The very same,” he declared proudly.

  I was aghast. Even with his Eton tie hanging down in front of his multi-coloured T-shirt, I had not recognised the man. His disguise and mannerisms were perfect, even down to the aroma.

  “What is that smell?” I asked.

  “Catnip spray,” he replied. “From the pet shop. Ajax seems most taken with it.” The cat had again begun rolling about the floor, purring loudly.

  “But what is the purpose of this deception?” I enquired.

  “Tonight,” he announced, “I shall ingratiate myself amongst the local drug-taking fraternity in order to extract some information about our new friend, Cain Upstart, who is rumoured to be Wottenham’s premier purveyor of smokable entertainment. According to his police record, he has previously received one warning and one suspended sentence for possession with intent to supply, and received a three-month custodial sentence for ABH against an ex-girlfriend. The late Adam Upstart has no criminal convictions, although there have been complaints of sexual assault against young women, but with insufficient evidence to press charges.”

  “Good grief!” I spluttered. “What a pair of rogues.

  “Indeed. Now, I believe that you have something for me.”

  I presented Fairfax with his post, and he tore into the package with gusto.

  “It is a CD,” he announced, holding it aloft. “No card, no label, no letter; just the disc.” We decanted to the kitchen and Urban-Smith began firing up his laptop, while I filled and boiled the kettle. Within a minute or two, he had the contents of the disc displayed before him.

  “There is only one file upon the disc, a movie file,” said Fairfax. He scanned the file for viruses and, finding none, started it playing.

  The movie clip commenced with a blurry green and brown image swaying to and fro upon the screen. The speakers relayed a combination of birdsong, wind noise and the drone of nearby traffic. The picture swum in and out of focus for a few seconds before finally resting on two middle-aged gentlemen engaged in conversation upon a park bench. The cameraman seemed to be filming from behind some shrubbery and from a distance; branches swayed in the foreground and the picture lurched to and fro despite the cameraman’s best efforts.

  This continued for a minute or two while dog walkers, joggers and children hustled this way and that along the path adjacent to which the two men sat. It was not possible to hear any of the dialogue and I recognised neither of the subjects.

  “Most peculiar,” I said. “Does it mean anything to you, Fairfax?”

  “It is obviously supposed to,” he replied, “as it has been sent without explanation or embellishment, but I confess that it does not. These two gentlemen have a matter of great importance to discuss, but fear that their conversation may be recorded or overheard. Their fears are well-founded, but they have chosen their meeting place well, for it is a windy day and their words are swept safely away. The file is dated the twenty-second of July 1989. I would guess that the subjects are in their sixties or early seventies, and I suspect the matter they are discussing relates to the Apple of Eden.”

  “Do you think Anders de Wolfmann sent this?” I asked.

  “Unlikely. Why would he deliver it to Chuffnell Mews when he is fully aware of our current locale?” Fairfax copied the file onto his hard-drive and removed the disc from the computer. “I need to study this in more detail, but for now I must away.”

  “Where is Ulysses?”

  “He has been wrestling with some particularly weighty particles, and elected to turn in early.” Fairfax returned his cap to his scalp and rotated it one hundred and eighty degrees once again. “PC Worthy has agreed to pick us up at nine tomorrow. We shall rendezvous at breakfast. Adieu.”

  And with that, he swept out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I finished my cup of tea, then ambled into the front room to curl up on the sofa beside Ajax, who lay upon his back, snoring soundly.

  Within a few minutes, I was asleep as well.

  *

  I dreamt that I was sitting cross-legged within a summoning circle, clad in jeans and a cotton robe, and chanting in Latin. The floor was daubed with blood-red runes and sigils, and the only sources of light were the five black candles stood about the perimeter of my circle.

  A low hum rose from the floor beneath me and made my chest throb and shudder with its power. The candles guttered, and my shadows scuttled about the walls. The hum grew deeper and stronger, and I chanted louder and louder until the walls shook and my throat burned, and I screamed at the top of my lungs, “salve Satan!”

  With a hiss, the flames on the candles flared and sparked like fireworks. Sweat beaded upon my head and chest, and I swayed to and fro, rocking backwards and forwards within my circle until suddenly the flames shrank and the humming ceased, and I sat rocking and muttering in the silence, spittle upon my lips and madness behind my eyes.

  Dawning came gradually upon me; I was no longer alone. I raised my head and stared in awe. Nell stood before me, naked and furious, her fists clenched, her shoulders hunched and her knees slightly bent as if she were to pounce at any second.

  “Nell,” I whispered. “Ego servus tuus sum.”

  She pointed a trembling finger at me and spat upon the floor. “Rupert,” she bellowed. “Ego sum vere occupatus. Quosdam nostrum esse oportet operari.” [I’m very busy. Some of us have to work.]

  I hung my head in shame.

  “Save us,” I whispered. “Save us from this Hell!”

  ◆◆◆

  15. Icky Sticky

  Tuesday, 9th January 2007

  I rose at seven and showered before heading through to the kitchen for breakfast. Ulysses, Fairfax and Ajax had all risen before me and were making great progress through their breakfast. Fairfax was scribbling in his notebook, Ulysses was embroiled in last night’s local newspaper, and Ajax sat beneath the table, cleaning his paws.

  “What-ho, Rupert.”

  “Good morning, Ulysses. Good morning, Fairfax.”

  I boiled the kettle, popped some bread into the toaster and leant against the kitchen counter to await my toast. I am relieved to say that Fairfax was once again clad in his usual attire, namely trouser, shirt and Eton tie.

  How did you fare last night, Fairfax?”

  “Quite well actually.” Fairfax paused to sip at his tea. “As you recall, I ventured out into the night to probe the fetid underbelly of the Wottenham drug fraternity.”

  “Yes indeed,” I said, searching the refrigerator for the marmalade. “If memory serves, you were dressed like an imbecile.”

  “Indeed I was. My first port of call was a local nightclub, Ignition, where I made the acquaintance of a most charming young gentleman, who agreed to sell me several grams of cocaine for nasal insufflation and a half dozen tablets of methamphetamine derivative. He refused, however, to part with more than an ounce of what he referred to as, ‘icky sticky,’ and implored me not to make it known that he had sold it to me.”

  I paused in my exploration of the refrigerator. “Icky Sticky?”

  “Cannabis resin,” clarified Fairfax. “Apparently, Cain Upstart considers himself to have exclusive rights to supply the local populace with inhalable cannabis derivatives, and is willing to support his claims with compelling physical evidence. My new friend, Whelper he calls himself, made it plain that it is only due to the Upstart family bereavement that he considered it incumbent upon him to assist me in this matter.”

  Ulysses lowered his paper. “To quote my junior-school teacher, Miss Fulsome, I trust that you have brought enough for everybody.”

  “Sadly, the procurement of these items was merely the social lubricant to loosen the tongues of the local populace. Regretfully, all that remains of last night’s booty are the crumbs beneath my fingernails, whi
ch no amount of soap and water appear able to dislodge.”

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “Well,” he replied, leaning forward excitedly, “to use the vernacular of the Wottenham youth subculture, this is how shizzle went dizzle.”

  *

  Monday night is Ladies’ Night at Club Ignition in Wottenham Town. He leaves Ulysses’ cottage as detective, author and paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith; he arrives at Ignition as travelling London connoisseur and purveyor of finest narcotics, anodynes and stupefactives, Drayton “The Buzz” Buzzard.

  He pays his entry fee and immediately heads for the gentlemen’s rest room to acquire supplies for the night’s labours. He finds Whelper lurking outside the stalls, and immediately ingratiates himself with a simple dap greeting and, “wassup?” Money and illicit substances change hands, and within a few minutes, The Buzz is sidling up to a pair of young ladies at the Ignition bar. They are attired in black dresses, with heavy black eyeliner, dyed black hair and black, knee-length boots in a diluted goth style. Each lady sports tattoos on both arms, and one has a tear tattooed beneath her left eye. The Buzz thinks that they may be interested in what he has to offer.

  He opens the conversation casually by asking if either lady knows the whereabouts of Cain Upstart. It appears that the ladies are from another town and know nothing of the Wottenham scene, so The Buzz terminates the trialogue and moves on to another pair of young ladies, both blonde, both slim, and both in the market for some psychoactive enhancement. The Buzz leads them to the gentlemen’s rest room, and Whelper watches with approval as the two ladies bend over the sink to insufflate some premium-quality nose candy. They return to the main body of the club in talkative mood, and The Buzz asks if they know of the demise of Adam Upstart.

  This time he hits paydirt; the ladies were born, raised and schooled in the vicinity, and have heard all about Adam Upstart’s curious habits, especially in the bedroom, where he had a preference for rough sex and hard drugs, preferably simultaneously. Despite Upstart’s fame, his tastes were considered too extreme for most of the local female populace, and Upstart would regularly purchase the services of Wottenham’s courtesans and trulls.

  The Buzz circulates, and by half past ten, he has used up all of his MDMA and most of his cocaine. He hears the same rumours and gossip several times over and decides that he has gleaned as much as there is to glean from Ignition’s patrons.

  He leaves the club and walks into Wottenham centre to find a lady of ill repute, specifically one who specialises in the type of recreational procreation that may have appealed to the late Adam Upstart. He speaks to a pair of middle-aged cocottes who refer him onwards to their employer, a tall gentleman in a dark suit, who calls himself Mr Topps.

  Mr Topps knows of Adam Upstart, and he doesn’t allow clients to be rough with his employees. He suggests that The Buzz look elsewhere.

  It is a short taxi ride back to Ulysses’ cottage, where The Buzz spends an hour on the internet and telephone, and is able to book a two a.m. appointment with a local dominatrix, Madame Maxine (or Mad Max to her regular gentlemen). The Buzz does not like to keep a lady waiting, and is at the door of her Wottenham Town flat at ten minutes to the hour, bearing the modern-day equivalent of gold, frankincense and myrrh; namely prophylactics, cannabis and cocaine.

  *

  “Tell me, Rupert; have you ever been bound and gagged, spanked with a riding crop, and then had melted candle wax dripped onto your testicles?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” I lied.

  “Ah, Rupert,” Fairfax sighed. “You have led such a sheltered existence; it amazes me that you did not join a monastery.”

  “What was the outcome?” enquired Ulysses, who had abandoned the local paper in order to hear the story’s conclusion.

  “Aside from some impressive bruises and singed testicles, I managed to acquire a little supplementary information about the Upstart brothers that does not appear in their police files. As previously alluded to, Cain Upstart has cornered the local market in combustible cannabinoids, although he does also dabble in the sale of amphetamines. I am given to understand that he has green thumbs, and produces a most aromatic and delightful harvest somewhere in the locality. More significantly, it is rumoured that certain of the local constabulary turn a blind eye to his endeavours in exchange for a share of the proceedings, and in order to maintain the status quo. Several years ago, Wottenham was plagued by an infestation of unruly dealers, but the reign of Cain Upstart has curbed the trend significantly. He is reputed to have an extremely unwelcoming temperament toward the competition.”

  “I can well believe it,” I said. “He conveys a very intimidating presence.”

  “What of the deceased?” asked Ulysses.

  “According to Madame Maxine, Adam Upstart was most interested in all forms of bondage and violent sex. He would enjoy both giving and receiving pain, and was fascinated by erotic asphyxia, often insisting on being choked with a noose almost to the point of unconsciousness whilst in flagrante. Maxine was also able to confirm his interest in dark magic; often he would cut himself in order to drip blood onto his carnal companions during coitus, and would chant and moan incantations during the act. Madame Maxine was one of only a very few grandes horizontales that would tolerate his theatrics. I wonder if the allegations of assault may have stemmed from his bizarre fetishes.”

  I sipped at my morning tea and pondered these revelations; my own procreative practices seemed quite tame by comparisons. Of course I enjoy a spanking and some light torture as much as the next man, but I draw the line at the drawing of blood.

  “What are your plans for the morning?” asked Ulysses.

  “PC Worthy is collecting me and Rupert at nine, and we will be visiting the last two members of the Werewolves of Wottenham Wood; drummer, Ethan Dunnet and bass guitarist, Justin Rederring.”

  *

  PC Worthy was right on time, and by half past nine, we were in the front room of Ethan Dunnet’s terraced house in South Wottenham, drinking tea and admiring his drum kit, which squatted just beyond a set of glass double doors in the dining room.

  Dunnet lived with his mother and younger sister, Justine, both of whom had elected to join him for moral support during the questioning. He was a slightly portly young man with wavy fair hair to his shoulders and a short beard to match. He shared his blue eyes and pale complexion with his mother and sister (though not the beard), and he was wearing a black Werewolves of Wottenham Wood T-shirt and blue jeans.

  PC Worthy kicked off the fun with the expected, “can you account for your movements?” and, “how long had you known’s?” His mother and sister were able to corroborate that at the time of Adam Upstart’s death, Ethan Dunnet had been at home and had not left the house all night. He had known Adam Upstart for six years, ever since Upstart had joined the band. He had little contact with Cain Upstart.

  It seemed that the ladies of the Dunnet household did not share Rosetta Stone’s admiration of the late Adam Upstart.

  “He was weird,” said Justine Dunnet, wrinkling her nose. “One of the girls from our school reported him for rape, but nothing ever came of it. I heard that she moved away to try to get over it.”

  “Was she a friend of yours?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t know who it was. It’s all kept anonymous until it comes to court, I think.”

  All eyes turned to PC Worthy. “I don’t know about it,” she said. “I wasn’t involved in the case.”

  “What did you think about moving to Los Angeles?” asked Urban-Smith.

  Ethan Dunnet flushed and writhed in his seat. “Erm, well….. I hadn’t really…”

  “Los Angeles?” Mrs Dunnet was aghast. “You never said anything about moving out.”

  “It’s okay, Mum,” he muttered, eyes on the floor.

  “Okay? Okay? What about me and your sister? Were you just going to up and leave?”

  “Mum!” Ethan Dunnet flashed his mother an angry
glance. “We’ll talk about it later. Not that it matters now,” he added. “With Adam gone, nobody’s going anywhere.”

  “You’re not going to let Adam Upstart’s death stop you from going, are you?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “I told you. Nobody’s going anywhere.”

  “Really?” Urban-Smith raised his eyebrows and rubbed his jaw in feigned surprise. “Darren Forshaw seemed to think that it would be a simple matter to find a replacement singer. He felt that the band would simply take up where they had left off; which presumably means Los Angeles.”

  “No one’s going to bloody Los Angeles!” shouted Ethan Dunnet, leaping from the sofa.

  PC Worthy stood up and raised a hand. “Easy, Ethan. Don’t get upset.”

  “He’s trying to wind me up,” he spat, pointing a finger at Urban-Smith, who shrugged innocently.

  “Please calm down, Ethan,” implored PC Worthy, but it appeared that there would be no further co-operation from The Wolves’ drummer, and we made our apologies and left.

  “Good work, Fairfax,” I said as I climbed into the back of PC Worthy’s patrol car. “You certainly handled that with your usual panache.”

  “His reaction speaks volumes,” Urban-Smith replied. “Here is a timid man who lives with his mother and becomes easily distressed when challenged. Clearly he is no threat to anyone.”

  “Are you sure?” said I. “He reminds me of Norman Bates.”

  “But his mother is alive, Rupert. In the event of her death, however, I would caution against visiting with the intention of taking a shower.”

  *

  Justin Rederring lived with his long-term girlfriend in a small semi-detached house just a few streets away from Ethan Dunnet. He was tall and wiry with straight dark hair down his back, bad skin and a cheerful grin.

  His girlfriend, Sheree, was about a foot shorter than he, wide of hip and proud of breast, with bleached blonde hair and a far-too-short skirt which she had to continually smooth down to prevent us from seeing her underclothes. Their three-year-old son, Dexter, was at nursery, but his detritus was scattered about the room like shrapnel.