The judge picks up what appears to be a rock from his judge’s desk. Without warning, he hurls it at me, and I have to duck. Peals of laughter this time, some people falling over and having to pick themselves up.
The judge holds up his hands, sticky with blood, presumably from Stephen Carver. “Oh, look, what happened here” he says in a mocking voice.
“Stop, stop, you’re killing me” shouts someone from the benches, crying with laughter.
“Can I have a drink, please?” I ask.
The defence lawyer (I know this because he has a big badge pinned to his shirt saying “Defence Lawyer”, other than this he is laughing as hard as everyone else) – he composes himself for a second, springs to his feet and bangs his defence desk very hard with his fist.
“I demand my client’s right to a drink!” he shouts, and everyone (including him) starts laughing again.
The prosecutor, mimicking the defence, jumps up, and bangs his own fist on his own desk, shouting “Objection, your honour! The defendant is clearly already drunk!”
“Sustained” booms the judge, and then “on second thoughts, he’ll die soon anyway, so why not. Get the man a large bottle of whisky.”
“But, your honour…” starts the prosecution.
“Silence!” screams the judge.
“Now” he continues, calmer, “get the man a drink.”
People hurry off and quickly there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of me.
The judge is peering at me from behind dark glasses. “Would you like to make a statement?”
I take a large drink and nod, then stand up. Everyone has turned in their chairs, seats, stools, to face me. People are silent and expectant.
I have no idea what to say, so I take another drink and clear my throat. “Your honour,” I start, “ladies and gentlemen of the court. I am not guilty. I sincerely apologise for any trouble that I have caused you, but I am not guilty, and I would beg the court to let me go and allow me to live my life.”
The prosecutor is about to say something, but the judge silences him. He rises to his feet, I am shocked by how tall he is, he towers over me and everyone else in the court, in his wiry, skinny frame.
“Mr Paris” he starts, in a deep, languid voice. “Whether you are guilty or not is an irrelevant question. No doubt, you are guilty of a great many things, but perhaps not in our world. In our world, you are guilty of just one thing."
There are murmurs around the court, everyone is staring at me, people are nodding in agreement.
“Do you know” continues the judge, “what that is?”
“Er…”
“You should know,” he continues, “you should be completely aware. Shouldn’t he?” he addresses the courtroom
More murmurs, more agreement.
“Do you know… where here is?”
Silence. I have to say something. “Here,” I say cautiously, “is Somewhere Else.”
The judge chuckles softly. “No,” he says, “you are from Somewhere Else. You come here, you all come here, you’re all the same.”
The prosecutor stands, and says formally “The defendant is charged with violation of his soul.”
“What?” I say.
The defence stands, and says formally “The defendant pleads guilty.”
“No I don’t!” I shout.
“Silence!” shouts the judge. “Sentence,” he continues, in a softer voice, “will be passed. All rise please.”
Everyone in the courthouse shuffles to their feet, everyone, shabby and well dressed, looking at me.
“John Paris,” the judge continues in his deep voice, “the court finds you guilty of coming to our world, with the intention of destruction, solely for the purpose of power to yourself. This is a very serious crime, for which there is only one punishment. You will be devoured by the beast. Do you have anything to say?”
“You can’t kill me” I whisper, and everyone laughs.
“Just try” I say.
Chapter 34
I am the wolf
Chapter 35
I’m back.
“Tim” I whisper.
His hollow eyes stare back at me.
“Tim”
His white shirt is ripped in two. It’s like the talon of some giant bird took a swipe at him. There’s red on each side of the rip, random splashes of blood. I touch his chest and I can feel the heart beat. But his eyes are hollow and dead.
I’m a simple man, I just want power and money like everyone else, but I fear that I may have too much.
“You’re going to have to let him rest” whispers the nurse, gently she takes my arm and I rise with her, we walk out of the room and the door slides silently behind us. I let her continue to hold my hand and feel her soft, smooth skin touching mine. She is very beautiful and young, and I imagine slipping her uniform off and making love to her gently in the adjacent room, on the hospital bed, watched by all the patients who are too ill to move, too ill to even turn or react, too immobile to do anything, just able to watch and cry in agony as their hormones rush through them and tell them to do things that they can’t, they can’t while I can and do, God I love hospitals and there’s an empty room just there, a bed just there, with its crisp white sheets and perfect cleanliness. She’s stopped and she’s turned to me and she’s smiling at me and God she is beautiful, her teeth are so white, even whiter than the sheets, so I can’t help myself and I whisper to her “I love you”
Her smile grows even brighter and she says “I love you too”, and without any more prompting she leads me into the empty room, and starts to unbutton my tailored trousers with her teeth, and then we’re on the bed, we’re making love, and it’s even better than I thought it was going to be, and when she comes she’s screaming and I’m looking around and they’re all there, all looking at me, all straining, and just before I come I see Tim, and I see, there’s a flicker in his eyes as I wink at him and then
And then my head explodes.
The lights are brighter. Brighter than the sun and I think maybe, at last, I’m in heaven, then I think, don’t be stupid, remember who you are, I believe yes of course I believe who wouldn’t, but I am simply, totally, and awfully unworthy, and so I conclude that the lights must be real, the blood on my hands may not be my own because my head is still there, I am feeling it, bathing it in blood, I must still be here.
I am here, of course, I am here, in the hospital, on the bed, here staring at my bloody hands, sitting here on the perfectly white, pristine sheets, except they are not white any more either, they are red and brown, red for blood and brown, or off white to be more precise, for little bits of bone and I’m guessing bits of brain. Then, of course, I realise, it’s not me, it’s her, and I almost shed a tear for the lovely nurse, who I knew so intimately only a few moments ago and now lies immobile, her head torn in two, her neck ripped open, quite clearly beyond saving.
Don’t panic, I think. I panic. I’m looking round wildly, there’s no one here, just the dead and the inert, just Tim, and can I detect, or am I imagining, in his broken face, a slight hint of a smile, you bastard, I think, and then, shit I really have to get out of here, I’m not even sure why I’m here, except for maybe visiting Tim, but I’m guessing this maybe hard to explain, why there seems to be a dead nurse here and me covered in her blood, and no one to protect me. Shit shit shit.
OK, don’t panic, I’m breathing deeply, I’ve been through worse. But Jesus, there really is no one to protect me here, I can’t ask Simon, I have nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, actually, what the hell do I do. And what the hell happened, come to think of it, why is she dead, did I really do this. I couldn’t have, could I, I couldn’t be, oh no, oh my god, no, the wolf.
No.
Stop.
Focus, come on, John, focus. What’s there, what’s around you, no one, just the dead and the dying. There’s a corridor, there’s a lift at the end of the corridor, what if someone comes up, what if someone is here, look at me,
then I’ll be in trouble. OK, I need to work quickly, first, I need to tidy up, get rid of the evidence, hide the body, so to speak, tidy myself, brush myself down. Then I’ll worry about what else to do.
Right. Tidy up. My hands are shaking as I’m rearranging the bed sheets, covering her up, trying to contain the blood, covering the sheets over and over, but at the same time I seem to keep getting blood from my hands and body all over the sheets again, and I throw my hands up in frustration.
Eventually I’m starting to manage, I’ve wiped myself down, and apart from a few minor stains on my shirt, which I can just about cover up with my jacket, there doesn’t seem to be too much blood. I’m breathing heavily, I can see a ghostly reflection of myself through the glass partitions, my face looks wild, unkempt, fearful. Okay, get rid of the evidence, the towels, the spare sheets around me, the bloody mess. Take that empty bag that someone has left there, conveniently, stuff them in there, right I’ve done that. Brush myself down, steady myself and walk out of here.
Walk down the corridor to the lift, press the button and wait. That poor girl, I didn’t even know here name. That poor, beautiful girl.
Ping, goes the lift. The doors slide open and I step inside, then halt myself to avoid bumping into the person coming out. Shit. Quickly I step aside, muttering “Excuse me” and start again towards the lift, without lifting my head.
“Mr Paris?”. You’re joking. I nod quickly without looking up. “Oh, Mr Paris” she continues, in her smooth, silky voice, “I’m so sorry about your friend, I really don’t think there’s much we can do for him. It’s so nice of you” she purrs, “to visit him.” She’s there, waiting for my response, “Mr Paris?”
I look up. Another beautiful woman (For the record, long, flowing, dark hair, a radiant face, perfectly proportioned, eyes that sparkle like the sun). Something strange starts to happen, and I can recognise the feeling this time, as it builds in me, overwhelming me, overpowering me, telling me to shout and to scream to her that I love her, that I will lay down and die for her, that I want her, that I can’t live without her, and l know, I know she will say the same.
Thank God I am so strong. “Erm, yes, thanks” I say, and get myself into the lift quickly, hitting the ground floor button. As the lift door starts to slide shut, so slowly, almost in slow motion, I reach my hand out to her, and my eyes catch hers and dance with beauty and with desire, and her hands reach out for mine and if we touch it’s all over.
And the lift doors shut. I breath out, in relief. As the lift glides smoothly downwards, I allow my head to rest on the panelling. Shit. Fuck. I am the wolf. This, really, is all I need.
***
The hospital lobby is vast, stretches out in clean, sterile white further than I can see, blurring into some sort of antiseptic haze far in the distance. Be cool, be calm and casual, don’t get noticed, don’t hurry, don’t run, don’t turn round. I wonder if she has found her yet, one beautiful person finding another dead and buried, well, covered, half her head missing and her throat ripped out. I wonder how quickly she will set the alarm, will she phone down to the front desk, or to security, or will she scream for a while, then faint and then run towards the lift. I’m walking past the front desk now, glancing sideways – be cool, be calm, I can feel sweat on my forehead dripping down into my eyes, just wipe it off casually, be cool. The nurse at the desk catches my eye, thank goodness, it’s a man, he smiles at me and says “Good evening, Sir” in a friendly voice. I am nodding quickly at him, and I turn away to the exit, it’s in my sights now, I can get there, I can do this, I can escape into the night and build a new life for myself, far away from all of this, far away from what I’ve left behind.
Perhaps I should join a convent, or a monastery, perhaps a better choice, I need to keep away from women, unless I kill men too. Wow, I hadn’t thought of that, what if it’s not just beautiful women who I want to devour and destroy, no, that can’t be right, it must be, I’ll be OK, I just need to keep away from beautiful women, and I’ll be fine. But I’ll need money, a passport, an identity to do this, to be able to get away from my old life and start again, how will I get that? Good point, good question. Simon could help me but of course he won’t, he is a man of his word after all and it would take a lot to bring him back. OK, well maybe I could, but it’s unlikely. What about Tim, but then Tim’s dead, or as good as dead. What did happen to Tim, actually, good point, what did happen to him, how did he get that way? Maybe I could break into Tim’s hideout and steal some money, no but I don’t even know where it is or how I got there. Who else is there, though? Ruth? What about Ruth, she betrayed me, not just once, but twice, as far as I can tell, and now she’s sleeping with Simon and enjoying the good life, who knows, she may even be living in my apartment, watching my huge television and making love to him in my enormous bed. Could I forgive her? Probably, if she slept with me again, probably, if she helped me out, if she felt she owed me and had to atone. Maybe, maybe she could, she would. What if I kill her, though? What if she’s beautiful enough for me to rip her in two? I wonder, if it’s triggered by beautiful women, what would happen with an ugly woman, or at least one who isn’t beautiful. I wonder where the line is, how you define it, is it me who defines it or is it some cosmic beauty line somewhere in the sky?
Ruth is out, I reckon, she turns me on too much, she must be what I would consider beautiful, and though it may be some sort of pleasurable revenge, it wouldn’t help me get out of here, really. But what if I wore dark glasses, would that help? One of the first things I’m going to need to do is to contact some sort of werewolf expert, there must be some around, I need to understand the rules, otherwise I could land in a whole heap of trouble. Maybe there’s a cure, that would be good, I know that scientific advances are working, in China they managed to cure that baby girl who was born with two heads, didn’t they, well if they can do that then they must be able to cure werewolfness. Is it that, or is it werewolfosity? I need to find out. Anyway, back to the point, not Ruth, not yet at least until I know what I’m dealing with here. So, Tim, maybe it should be Tim. Let’s face it, my friend, you don’t really have a lot of friends do you, it’s not like you can open your phone book and pick out five people who can help you out with this particular problem. And I’m here, aren’t I, I’m here right now, so I could talk to Tim, but hang on a minute, I can’t go back upstairs can I? Christ, I’m being stupid. Just get out of here, right that’s what I’ll do, then I’ll figure it out. Though maybe I should find out what’s wrong with Tim, at least if I know that then I know whether I have a chance of getting it sorted don’t I? Well, I could just ask quickly, find out, then get out of here quick, the nurse still isn’t down yet is she, she’s probably fainted so I guess I’ve got a few minutes. OK, here goes.
And with that I turn back to the desk and look at the nurse at the front desk, who’s still looking at me, a questioning look on his face. I swallow and then walk back up to him, glancing at the huge sign above his head that proudly states “Silent Rage Community Hospital”, and underneath, “Here to Help and to Cure with a Smile”
“Excuse me” I start, trying not to sound too nervous.
He’s continuing to stare at me, in that curious way, but his smile is warm as he replies, “How can I help you, sir?”
“I was here visiting a, erm, friend…” God, I feel nervous.
“Yes, of course, you mean Mr Bateman?”
OK, he knows, how does he know, don’t worry, well maybe I told him, I mean, I can’t remember anything older than about two hours ago. Or an hour, or even less. I wonder why that is, to be honest. Concentrate, come on. Be cool.
“Yes, erm, that’s right, well I was, erm, I was wondering…” and I stop, unsure of myself.
His smile grows broader, and he reaches out with his right hand and gently touches me on the arm. He’s younger than I thought and his green eyes have a sincere glow.
His voice is low and husky when he says “I don’t finish until eleven, but yes o
f course, I will."
What? I think. “What?” I ask, and his face suddenly turns so red “Erm, yes, I mean, well” he says, stammering. He’s pulling himself back, and then says, “Erm, I’m sorry, sir, what was it you wanted, Mr Bateman, yes, of course, tragic case.”
“Erm, you think?”
“Well, yes of course.” We’re both silent there for a moment, both looking at each other, I don’t think either of us knows what to say or how to continue.
“Erm, look” I start, “you’re, very, I mean..."
“No need” he replies quickly.
“No need for what?” I ask.
“Well, erm, no need, to, erm, apologise…” and he trails off, looking downcast now, but I have no idea, really, what he is talking about.
“Erm, apologise?”
“No, of course not, apologise, why would you need to apologise, of course. What I meant, was, no need to explain. I understand. Mr Bateman was a special man. We of course, think we may be able to replace some of it, but he’ll never be back to normal, to be honest, I don’t think we should, I think we should just let the poor man die, but of course the doctor will have told you, I mean that’s just my opinion. I mean, oh…oh, I’m so sorry, you weren’t close were you, that wasn’t why, you and me, was it…”
I think, maybe he realises he’s lost me as his words rush out and then stop, suddenly as he looks completely lost, completely off balance.
“Erm” is all I can say.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, forlornly.
“Erm. I think I should go. Thanks anyway.” But we’re both standing there, looking at each other, his mouth hanging half open in some comical imitation of shame and something else. I’m about to say something, I have no idea what, but fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I’m stopped.
“Mr Paris, may I please have a word?”
Oh God, too late. There go my plans again. I turn round and look curiously at the tall, lean man, dressed in a beige raincoat, collar turned up, a trilby leaning forward over his head, half covering his face.
“Of course” I smile at the black and white figure and I follow him across the distant whiteness of the vast empty lobby, towards the far wall. He disappears suddenly and I find myself following him through a disguised door into a small room, empty except for a white table and two white chairs, bright and dizzying and almost indistinguishable from their surroundings.
Falling Page 17
