A Heart in the Right Place

by Heide Goody

  “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could spray this stuff at whoever’s out there, and then you whack them with one of those hooks.”

  “A bit violent and definitely short-sighted,” said Tony. “If that thing really is a werewolf.”

  “I think we can be certain it is.”

  “Then I doubt a surprise attack with foamy spray and a metal hook will cause it much grief.”

  “No,” said Nick. “No, you’re probably right.”

  45

  Finn sat at the base of a tree.

  She wasn’t sure how she had got there.

  She just needed a few minutes to get her head straight and everything would be fine.

  She tried to recall what had happened.

  The werewolf – Oz – had slammed her into the wall. Her leg was definitely broken in the struggle. There was a bit of blur after that. There had been some running. Or maybe some crawling. Or was it dragging?

  Yes, she remembered her arm being in the creature’s mouth, it hauling her out across the yard towards the trees; and then it must have let go. No, it hadn’t let her go. She remembered now. She looked down at herself. Blood glistened in the Moonlight.

  She just needed a few minutes to tend to her wounds and then everything would be fine. The most immediate concern was the amount of blood she was losing. Her Muubaa was shredded, and the werewolf had bitten off her right arm. It was the broken arm, though, so she could at least apply a tourniquet if she could get the duct-tape out of her pocket. She still had one good arm; she need no more than that. Presumably the right arm was around somewhere but she’d find it later.

  Her breath was ragged, and she felt very light-headed.

  She’d told the old guy – Tony, that was his name – that nine out of ten people died in pain, animal pain, but she couldn’t feel any at all. That wasn’t necessarily a good sign.

  “Duct-tape,” she said. She groped for her pocket. Nothing was where it should be, as her jacket hung in tatters, or maybe the shock and blood loss had made her disoriented. Her fingers closed around the stiff edges of her photo collection. She pulled them out and they spilled across her lap. She closed her eyes for a moment, she opened them again.

  Squat shadows had gathered in the dark around her. The dead had come for her, she thought, head woozy. Her victims gathering at the end. One of the shadows snorted and stepped forward. The boar snuffled at her Moncler boots and nibbled at the crumbs of pig feed stuck there.

  “Piss off,” she said and waggled her foot to shoo it away.

  She used her good hand to turn all of the photos the right way up. It became increasingly difficult – her hand just wouldn’t do what she wanted, and felt very distant. As though it belonged to someone else. When did she last count these photos? There were dozens. A life’s work in pictures. She closed her eyes again. It was just too hard to keep them open.

  She just needed a few minutes to rest and then – what? – she struggled to recall. Something about her wounds. Something about the pictures.

  Another boar came forward and grazed on the nuggets of food pasted to her jeans.

  Finn had seen enough people die to know what it looked like. But she’d met a werewolf – fought a werewolf even – and that was cool.

  Something nibbled at the fingers of her good hand, her left hand, and still there was no pain. There was no feeling of any sort.

  She just needed a few minutes and then she’d do something about that…

  46

  In the walk-in freezer, the Carver men wracked their brains for what they could do about the werewolf.

  “We could drive a stake through its heart,” said Tony.

  “I think that’s for vampires,” said Nick. “We need some silver. What about a coin? I might have a fifty pee.”

  “You know it’s not made of actual silver, don’t you? I have got this, though.”

  “What?”

  “It’s my St Christopher.”

  Tony hooked his fingers under his shirt collar and pulled out a chain and a thin medallion, no larger than a fifty pee.

  “You have a St Christopher?” said Nick. “I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “For a start, I know you’re not a fan of jewellery on men.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever said that,” said Tony.

  Nick looked at him levelly. “When I told you I was thinking of getting my ear pierced, you told me the only men who wore earrings were poofs and pirates.”

  “That was twenty years ago.”

  “And a bit homophobic.”

  “That word hadn’t been invented then! Next, you’ll tell me it’s piratephobic too.”

  “Besides, you’re not religious,” said Nick. “Half the arguments you have with mom about funeral plans are because you don’t believe in anything.”

  “I believe in lots of things!”

  “Like what?”

  “Measure twice, cut once.”

  “That’s not a belief!”

  “And you don’t have to be religious to carry a St Christopher.”

  “You do if you think it’s going to protect you on journeys. Clearly St Christopher hasn’t been looking over us this weekend.”

  “It’s just a lucky charm.”

  “Pah!”

  “And maybe just the act of wearing it reminds me to put on my seatbelt, to not stand too close to the platform edge, hmmm? Maybe it’s just the little things which carry memories and meaning—” Tony sighed. “It was your grandad’s.”

  Nick’s miserable sniping attitude stopped dead. “Grandad?”

  “This St Christopher got him through the war, he said. Here, there and everywhere, dodging Hitler’s bombs.”

  Nick had no idea what it would have been like to fight in the war, but he’d seen Saving Private Ryan at the cinema. The first twenty minutes of violence and gore on the Normandy beaches had been so shocking he’d dropped his Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream. And those ice-creams weren’t cheap. He remembered something else. “Grandad didn’t fight in the war.”

  “No,” said Tony.

  “He was the foreman at the munitions factory at the end of the road.”

  “And every day he’d walk there and walk back. I’m sure he told you what it was like during the air raids in Birmingham.”

  Nick’s grandad had told him nothing of the sort. By the time Nick had reached an age to start paying attention, the old man had become a very old man, with little interest in anything except the horse-racing on the telly. He had been happy to watch Scooby Doo cartoons on TV with young Nick, though. The only thing Nick could remember his grandad saying with any clarity was “Look at their little legs go!”, although he couldn’t recall if it was while watching Scooby Doo or the horses.

  “It’s the only thing of his I have,” Tony was saying. “That and the old tobacco tin,” he added, patting his pocket.

  “The tin was his?”

  “Have you ever seen me smoke? It’s all I’ve got to remember him by. I … I don’t think I really ever got to know him. Apart from the broad facts and a few memories there’s not a lot I could tell you. I don’t know why he had a St Christopher. He wasn’t a religious man. He and your grandma were married in All Saints’ Church but I don’t think they were churchgoers at all.” Tony turned the St Christopher over in his hands. “He was just … dad. You know?”

  “Oh, I know,” said Nick.

  Tony shrugged. “Strong. Dependable. Clever with his hands. Never ever wrong. What’s the word? Infallible. Morning ’til night. I guess I thought that’s how a dad was supposed to be.”

  “Then you certainly succeeded. You never once struck me as fallible.”

  Tony chuckled. “Oh, I made plenty of errors raising you.”

  “Messed up the firstborn and ironed out the kinks in raising the second, huh?”

  The look Tony gave him was mildly wounded. “No, son. We did the same number on you both. Your mom and I are equally proud of our two sons.”
<
br />   “Really?” said Nick, genuinely surprised. “Me, who can’t even sell sausages, versus Super Simon the globetrotting planet-saver with the Scandawegian girlfriend?”

  “Huh,” grunted Tony. “Your mom and I like your girlfriend.”

  Nick opened his mouth to protest Abigail was technically no longer his girlfriend. Tony waved him into silence.

  “Yes, yes. You’re under the illusion you’ve split with her. That’s soon fixed. At least Abigail doesn’t refuse to eat your mother’s lamb curry because it’s cultural appropriation, or the lamb’s from New Zealand, or it’s got too many air miles or whatever she got so aerated about. And, at least when people ask, I have half a chance of being able to explain what you do for a living.”

  Nick didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to hear his dad bad-mouthing his baby brother, but it was the nicest thing Tony had said to him in— Since Nick could remember.

  “Sooo,” he said eventually. “The St Christopher. It’s made of silver, is it?”

  “Yes. I’m certain,” said Tony.

  “It’s not very big.”

  “No.”

  “If we got close enough to scratch him with that, he’d rip our heads off.”

  “I know what we can do.” Tony pulled away a support strut from one of the wall shelves. “This piece has a split in it. I’ll wedge the medal inside and make an axe.”

  “An axe?”

  “I don’t know a better word. Do you?”

  Nick thought for a moment. They needed an optimistic frame of mind. Insanely optimistic, even for a weapon which had zero chance of helping. “Right. Axe it is then.”

  Tony jammed the little medallion into the crack and looped the chain once over the length of wood. “Let’s go.”

  “Now?” said Nick.

  “Is there a better time?”

  Nick put his ear to the door again. Hearing nothing, he slid the hook out of the latch mechanism and cautiously opened the door. The food prep room was empty, apart from smears of blood, creosote and boar food pellets across the floor. They proceeded carefully: Nick carrying a useless bottle of Talisker in one hand and an equally useless foam tyre canister in the other. Tony hefted his St Christopher axe. The weapon looked ridiculous, but Nick tried to picture it splitting the skull of the werewolf. The power of positive thinking would get them through.

  “Is there anything else we can—”

  Something fell over in the corner. Nick squealed in fear and swung his foam tyre kit at it.

  Pickles bounded out of the dark, tongue lolling.

  “Pickles! For fuck’s sake!” Nick gasped.

  “Language, son,” said Tony, crouching to ruffle the dog’s ears.

  Nick put his hand to pounding heart. “I nearly crapped myself in fright.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” said Tony. “No one actually does that.”

  “Actually, dad—” Nick was about to point out he had done exactly that, when he heard a sound from outside.

  It was low, intense grumbling. It was a very busy animal sound. Nick tapped his dad’s arm, put his finger to his lips for quiet (nearly poking himself in the eye with the tyre foam kit) and beckoned him towards the exterior door.

  47

  Finn lifted her head. Somehow she was still alive. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  She felt far from all right though. A strange vibration ran through her in rhythm with her beating heart; a shuddering, not unpleasant quiver: like her blood cells were throwing shapes at a rave. Was this what it felt like when a heart gave its last few beats? Some sort of hyper-consciousness? The stump of her arm prickled with heat; perhaps nerve endings leapt into overdrive near death? A last-minute adrenalin rush. It was probably one of life’s many cruel jokes.

  Or maybe it was like that thing – Finn was dazed and woozy and struggled to find the words and concepts – there was that thing which happened to zebras or antelopes or whatever, when the lion dragged them down. She was sure she’d seen it on a David Attenborough documentary or something. When a lion took the zebra down and it knew its number was up, a chemical or hormone or something flooded the zebra’s brain, and it went into a blissed-out calm. A morphine blast to take the edge off its final moments.

  She found the thought of lions taking down zebras peculiarly arousing. The mental image of teeth locking around a throat, pulling and rending and dragging down to the ground, gave her a shudder of pleasure which matched the throb in her blood.

  She looked up and saw the Moon, shining clearly through the trees. She was wrong about the strange vibration. It wasn’t the beating of her heart, it was in time with the rhythm of the Moon. How had she never noticed before? How had she never realised how energising it was?

  The Moon was pale and huge and she was, for the first time in her life, keenly aware of how unfairly distant it was. Its glow, its love, was enough to call her to her feet, but not enough to sustain her. The Moon was an indifferent and unloving parent; Finn knew all about those.

  She stood. Her leg was still broken and she made sure she put as little weight on it as possible. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anyway.

  Shapes snuffled in the darkness. Finn forced her eyes to focus: the forest floor was abruptly brighter and clearer. The sustaining Moon gave her more than enough light by which to see. Three boars stood at a short distance, caught between caution and curiosity. Finn looked down at her feet. There were deep teeth marks in the toe of one boot where a boar had nibbled it.

  “You know how much these cost?” she said, coughing through her dry throat.

  The boars were unapologetic.

  Finn walked towards them. Walking on a broken leg was easier than she thought it would be. She just had to keep telling it who was boss; listen to the rhythm of the Moon in her blood instead of the pain in her bones.

  The boars stepped unhurriedly away as she neared. One of them snorted and continued nosing the earth for food. She lunged. It tried to bolt but was far too late. She was far too quick. It squealed, long and high, as she rolled it in the earth, exposing its round belly and fleshy neck. Finn rammed her strong fingernails into its throat, ripping, opening it like a birthday present. The squeal died in a spray of arterial blood. Trotters kicked and thrashed. She ignored them and buried her face in its bloody neck.

  Lions and zebras. That’s all the world was.

  48

  As they crept outside to investigate the sounds, Nick stayed close to his dad.

  The world untouched by the light thrown from the door and window was black and impenetrable. The full Moon, scudding over wispy clouds, gave definition to the treetops and the looming mountains, but nothing more. Nick was acutely aware that beyond the farmhouse was a landscape of dark woods and unfriendly mountains. Having been given living proof of the existence of werewolves, he was prepared to believe in all manner of ghosties and ghoulies and flesh-eating beasties living in such woods. But thinking of werewolves…

  The Oz-wolf squatted in the square of land made by encircling outbuildings. It had its back to the house. Light glistened on its spiky, oily coat. It was making those worrying, grumbling sounds as it worked on whatever it held in its front claws.

  Tony looked at it and raised his axe questioningly. Nick held out a restraining hand and gestured towards the car and the track. Nick was of the opinion they should just try to sneak away. Tony shook his head and, with a complex but surprisingly communicative series of gestures, pointed out they should attack it now, rather than be attacked when stumbling around in the dark.

  Pickles brushed past Nick’s legs. He bent to grab her collar. She looked up at him with an open-mouthed dog smile. Nick put his fingers to his lips, which was daft he knew, unless she had been taught some rather unlikely visual commands.

  Tony jerked his head towards the Oz-wolf. Clearly it was time to take the fight to the werewolf. Nick was not ready.

  There was an engine roar, rising out of the background white noise of the wind and the nearby river. It rose rap
idly in volume. A wide beam of light and the outline of a helicopter flew over, so loud it couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet above them. For a moment, the werewolf and the square of wasteland were picked out in bright, ugly light. The Oz-wolf stood automatically, gazing up.

  As the helicopter searchlight passed, the werewolf took a step to follow it. Nick could have punched the air. Yes, go follow the pretty light. Run off and play. If it chased after the helicopter (mountain rescue? The police? That Col character they’d spoken to on the phone? It didn’t matter), if the werewolf ran off in pursuit, maybe he and Tony could just slope off into the night.

  He held out a hand to hold his dad back again. The werewolf took another step. Its arms flexed and Nick saw what it had been gnawing on: a length of duct-taped arm with a trowel jammed in the end. Where there should have been a hand, the werewolf had chewed away four fingers, leaving just an upright thumb giving a jauntily inappropriate approval to proceedings.

  A whispered “Fuck!” of surprise escaped Nick’s lips.

  The werewolf turned, saw them and roared, rearing up to its full, terrifying height. Nick screamed. In his mind he had planned to keep his cool and lure the thing into range of Tony’s weapon. He had failed to factor in the bowel-loosening terror the thing induced. He stood there like the useless one in a teen horror movie, and screamed.

  Tony moved across the ground at an angle. “Distract it,” he whispered.

  The werewolf stepped towards Nick. In a moment of terrified clarity, he saw the shreds of duct-tape and black jacket leather wedged between the werewolf’s teeth. He screamed again. The wolf charged.

  Tony swung his shelf support St Christopher axe. It grazed the top of the werewolf’s shoulder. It gave a gratifying howl of pain, reaching around to clutch where the medallion had touched. Tony swung again and caught the werewolf across its chest. It fell backwards onto the ground. Even in its pain it was fast: it rolled, it bounced, and knocked the weapon from Tony’s hand.