Destiny of the Last Wolf

by Amy Cross

  I sigh. This is starting to sound like some kind of sub-X-Files conspiracy garbage, and my hangover is really biting now. "I can see you've done a lot of research," I say, "but I'm tired, and I don't know how you think I can help you." I pause. "Look, why don't we get stuck in with the facts, okay? Let's start with the dead girl. What's her name again?"

  "Cathy Henderson," he says, "but we can't look at one case in isolation -"

  "Let's look at Cathy," I say firmly, "and if we find anything that leads us to suspect werewolves or stuff like that, then we'll pursue that line of investigation at the appropriate point. Right now, all we have is a dead girl in a park, who seems to have been ripped apart by a wild animal."

  "Yes -" he starts to say.

  "A real wild animal," I continue, not giving him a chance to interrupt. "Now that's a genuine problem, because something killed Cathy Henderson and whether it's a werewolf or an escaped tiger, your job is to find out what it is. If it turns out to be a werewolf, hey, that's a bonus. But something killed her, and I'm pretty sure we can assume it'll kill again if it gets the chance. Are we agreed on that?"

  "Yes," he says simply.

  "Fine," I reply. "So we have common ground. We need to wait for the autopsy results tomorrow. Will you call me as soon as they're in?"

  "Yes," he says, "but -"

  "Meanwhile," I say, getting into a bit of a flow and not wanting to stop just yet, "you can leave behind some information and I'll take a look at it later. If you want to, I mean. Something that you think might persuade me. But right now, I'm really sorry, but I need to get back to sleep, 'cause I feel rough. It's no good for either of us if I'm sitting here, zoning out and unable to concentrate." I pause, seeing the disappointed look on his face. Was I too harsh? Or did I just take charge of a situation that seemed to be getting increasingly chaotic? "Do we have a deal?" I ask finally.

  "Sure," he says.

  "Good," I say. "Keep me informed about the case, and let me know the autopsy results tomorrow. And we'll meet up tomorrow evening, when I've had a chance to do some work. I also need to file a report for the paper about the case. Will it be okay to run with Cathy Henderson's name on Monday morning?"

  "Should be," he says. "I'll give you a call tonight and confirm."

  And with that, we're done. For today, at least. I feel like Stuart would have sat in my kitchen all day if I'd let him, so determined is he to persuade me that werewolves are real. I guess he's probably been alone for a long time, with no-one to talk to about all this stuff, and for some reason he sees me as a kindred spirit. I'm happy to listen to him, but I don't believe in all this paranormal stuff.

  "Here," he says, as I walk him to the door. He gives me a large brown envelope. "There's some of my best evidence in there," he continues. "Take a look at it, and call me if you want to talk. I really think this will persuade you."

  "I'll take a look after I've had a nap," I say.

  "You should look now," he replies.

  "After my nap," I say firmly, opening the door. "But I should warn you, unless this envelope contains a photo of a half-man, half-wolf guy, I'm not going to be easily persuaded."

  "Call me," he says, stepping outside. I shut the door and head back through to the kitchen. I feel sorry for Stuart, and I don't even think I have much of a chance to use him for information that might help my news reports. Nevertheless, I guess I'll keep in touch with him. But first, I need to sleep, 'cause my hangover is getting worse and worse. I put the brown envelope on the table. Whatever's in there can wait.

  Jess

  Monday

  The next day, with my hangover mercifully gone, I head into the newspaper office. I wrote a story on Sunday night confirming the identity of the dead girl in the park, and I'm shocked to see that for the first time I've got the front-page byline. It's weird, but for the first time I feel like I'm an actual, real journalist, rather than a bottom-rung scavenger running around and nipping at the heels of the 'real' newspaper workers.

  "Good job," says my editor, passing me in the corridor as I stare at my work on the front page.

  "Thanks," I say. It occurs to me that maybe I should use this opportunity to try to get a pay rise, or some kind of promotion, but I guess it's still early days. I've only been working here for a few weeks; before I got this job, I was... I pause. Again, I have that weird feeling that some part of my memory is missing. Shaking it off, I put the newspaper down and head over to the door to my editor's office.

  "Come in," he says before I have a chance to knock.

  "Hi," I say, stepping into his office.

  "Have you come for more praise?" he asks, not looking up from his computer. "You did a good job. I already told you. You want another pat on the head, you need to come up with another good story."

  "I'm working on it," I say. "I just wanted to ask you something."

  "Shoot," he replies.

  "Have you ever met a police officer named Stuart Alexander?"

  He looks up at me. "Yeah. Why?"

  "I just wondered what you think of him. I mean, is he a reliable source?"

  "He's a good officer," my editor says. "If he was really good, he'd have been promoted by now, or he'd have gone off to work in London, but by local standards he's probably a little above average. Nice guy, bit of an alcoholic. Maybe that's what's held him back. Don't say I said so, though. Why?"

  "No reason," I say, turning to leave.

  "Don't give me that crap," my editor says. "Ambitious young reporters don't come into my office to check on the reliability of police sources every day. Tell me what's going on."

  "Nothing's going on," I say. "I just wondered whether he's got a reputation."

  "He's got a reputation for being a drunk," my editor says bluntly. "As far as I know, though, in the brief windows of sobriety that he manages to enjoy, he's a good police officer."

  "Okay," I say, "thanks. I'll work on something and have it for you this evening." I head out of his office and towards the stairs. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do today, but glancing at my watch I realize that the autopsy on Cathy Henderson's body should have been finished about now, which means Stuart will hopefully be calling me to let me know the results, which means -

  My phone starts to ring. It takes me a moment to pull it out of my bag, and I answer without looking at the screen. "What've you got?" I ask, expecting Stuart to be on the other end of the line.

  "You never called," says a completely different voice. Someone slightly familiar. Someone I've... I pause, a feeling of cold panic rushing over me. It's Duncan!.

  "I -" I start to say, but then instinct takes over and I disconnect the call. "Fuck!" I say loudly. I look up and see the sub-editor is looking over at me. I quickly head down the stairs, and my phone rings again. It's an unknown number, which I guess means it's Duncan gain.

  "Hi," I say as I answer. "Sorry about that."

  "It's fine," Duncan says. "I just got a little worried about you. I thought maybe you'd lost my number or something."

  "No," I say, "not at all." My mind is racing as I try to work out what on Earth I'm supposed to say to him. I still can't remember what happened on Saturday night when I apparently went into the convenience store, talked to him and got his phone number. Was I an embarrassing wreck? Did I make a fool of myself? Considering how drunk I must have been, it's pretty clear that I did something awful. The only question is: what?

  "So how are you?" he asks. "After the other night."

  "I'm good," I say. "How are you?"

  "Oh, I'm fine," he says, and it sounds almost as if he's laughing. "So did you think any more about what we discussed?"

  I pause. What the hell did we discuss? "I'm not sure," I say, stalling. "It's hard to pin it down. What... part of the conversation are you referring to?"

  "Let's meet," he says. "Are you free this afternoon?"

  "Sure," I say, immediately regretting that I just said that. Not only do I have an article to research and write, but I also look like a mes
s right now. There's no way I can get my hair sorted out in time to -

  "How about two o'clock?" he asks. "Do you know that cafe by the beach? The one with the painting of a lighthouse next to the door?"

  "Sure," I say, once again throwing myself into an incredibly awkward situation. I laugh. "Why not?" I stop laughing. Stupid, stupid laugh.

  "I'll see you there," he says. "And Jess... don't worry."

  "Don't worry?" I ask as the line goes dead. "Duncan?" What the hell did he mean by that? I mean, I already was worrying, but not about anything that he should have known I was worrying about. Was he referring to something I said the other night? Damn it, I really really really wish I could remember what we talked about. Sighing, I check my watch and see that I've got barely an hour to get ready and get to the cafe. Even factoring in the fact that I'm allowed to be a little late, I'm in a race against time. Plus, there's the fact that I'm panicking like a schoolgirl, which isn't something I normally do. I run down the stairs and out into the street, and I stop and take deep, calming breaths.

  An hour later, after rushing back to my apartment and trying to fix my hair, I head down to the cafe by the beach. It's a bright, sunny day and the place doesn't look nearly as depressing as usual. I've no idea what to expect from my meeting with Duncan, but I've at least managed to stop panicking so much. I just keep reminding myself, as I walk, that Duncan is basically nothing to me. He's just a guy from a shop. Maybe I was drunk the other night and maybe I did and said some embarrassing things, but I can't have been too bad, or he'd never have phoned up and asked to meet me.

  When I reach the cafe, I see that Duncan's sitting at a table by the window. I go inside, order a coffee, and go over to the table.

  "Hi," I say.

  "Hi," he replies, standing up to greet me. A little old-fashioned. So far, so good.

  "So why did you choose this place?" I ask. On the way over, I tried to decide how I'd start the conversation, and I settled on something simple and innocuous. If I did embarrass myself the other night, I'll let him decide whether or not to bring it up. Perhaps he's too much of a gentleman, and he'll just let it slide.

  "I like being near the sea," he says. "It reminds me of the natural world. Something you don't see much of in the middle of a town."

  "True," I say, smiling. I kind of find myself thinking the same thing sometimes.

  He leans forward. "Don't you feel it again?" he asks, suddenly.

  "What?" I ask.

  "What we talked about the other night?" he says, frowning a little as if he's searching my eyes for clues.

  "Um," I say, trying to think of a response that won't make it seem completely obvious that I don't remember what we talked about the other night.

  "I knew it," he says.

  "What?" I ask.

  "You were too drunk to remember."

  "I was not!" I say, acting as if I'm deeply offended. I pause as the waitress brings my coffee over, and I wait until she's gone before I say anything else. "Okay," I continue. "I was!"

  He smiles. "Do you remember anything that we talked about?"

  "No!" I say firmly, as if it's something to be proud of. "No, I do not! Why, do you?"

  "All of it," he says. "Particularly our discussion about how we sometimes feel... different to other people. How we sometimes feel that something's not quite right. How the feeling's especially strong when we're together."

  I stare at him. Great. First Stuart, now this Duncan guy. Why am I attracting all the weirdos lately? "I'm not sure I said anything like that," I say, feeling that he's got an advantage over me. After all, he can claim I said pretty much anything.

  "We did," he replies. There's a pause as he seems to be staring at me. "Don't you feel it now? Think about it. We're sitting here, in a cafe by the beach. We've never done that before. But don't you feel like we've known each other for a while?"

  "I..." I start to say, but I pause. The truth is, I do feel like that, but I don't really want to admit that Duncan's right.

  "Don't you feel like there's a hole in your mind sometimes?" he asks. "Like some part of your memory's missing? I do. And the funny thing is, I feel like I'm closer to figuring it out when I'm with you." He takes a deep breath. "Sorry," he says, smiling, "I guess this must seem strange to you. We talked about all of this stuff the other night, but if you don't remember any of that, then I suppose you think I'm coming on a bit strong."

  "It's not that I don't believe you," I say carefully, "but I think perhaps you're placing too much emphasis on things I said when I was drunk." My interest in Duncan has changed dramatically in the course of just a few minutes: he's gone from being a hot guy who might be an opportunity for a bit of fun, to a slightly creepy guy who seems to know a lot more about me than I know about him.

  "Okay," he says, shrugging. "There's no way I can force you to remember things you said when you were drunk, and there's no way I can force you to acknowledge certain feelings you might be experiencing. If you're happy to have holes in your memory, there's nothing I can do to force your hand, is there?"

  I sigh. "I was drunk," I say, "and though I don't remember what I said, I'm sure it was just normal drunk crazy talk."

  "Then I guess we're done here," he says, standing up. "See you around." He walks over to the door and leaves.

  I sit alone for a few minutes, trying to work out what just happened. Duncan seemed pissed off at me for not remembering what I said when I was drunk, and it seems like whatever I did say, it was tinged with craziness. I look down at my coffee and realize that Duncan's just another crazy guy in a long line of crazy guys I've met, none of whom offers anything more than a brief distraction.

  I pay up and head home, disconsolate and feeling kind of low. I give Hazel a call, but she still isn't answering, and finally I get to my apartment and take a long, hot bath. It's almost 5pm, so I guess I've got a long night ahead of me, writing and re-writing an article for tomorrow's paper. I'll have to get it finished by 9pm, so once I'm out of the bath I head through to the kitchen, microwave some noodles, pour myself a glass of wine and get started at my laptop. It only takes me a few hours to get the bare bones of the story about Cathy Henderson down on the page, but when it comes to filling in the details, I draw a blank.

  Finally, I give up and try calling Stuart, hoping he can give me some kind of exclusive on the story. Unfortunately, he doesn't answer his phone. I guess he's probably drunk somewhere. Putting the phone down, I look over at the kitchen counter and see the brown envelope that he gave me yesterday. Sighing, I reach over and grab the envelope, tearing it open. Whatever's inside, Stuart claimed it might change my mind about the existence of werewolves. It turns out, the envelope contains a single black and white photo. I stare at it for a moment before I realize I'm looking at it upside down, so I turn it the right way and -

  I freeze.

  I swear to God: a cold shiver runs up my spine.

  The photo shows something impossible. Something that can't be real. It shows me, and Duncan, standing on the roof of what looks like a tower block in central London. But that's impossible. I'd never met Duncan until a couple of days ago. This photo has to be a forgery.

  Jess

  Tuesday

  After a sleepless night, during which I tossed and turned and tried to work out what was going on, I get up early on Tuesday morning and decide I have to confront my problems head on. I managed to get the story on Cathy Henderson to my editor by 9pm last night, and I find it's on the front page of the website. While I eat breakfast, I examine that photo of me and Duncan more closely; I'm not an expert, but it looks real, and I can't see any sign of it having been digitally manipulated. At the same time, it has to be fake, because I know for a fact that I've never stood on top of a god-damned tower block in central London with anyone, especially not Duncan. And -

  Suddenly, like a flash, a memory hits me. It's late at night, and I'm up on a tower block.

  "Oh fuck," I say, looking down. We're eight storeys up, and the street b
elow looks so tiny.

  "Scared of heights?" Duncan asks.

  "Apparently so," I say.

  "You got the key?" he asks.

  "What key?"

  "The key Olivia gave you."

  "I..." I check my pockets. "Fuck, I don't know where it is."

  "Never mind," he says. "We don't really need it."

  "So what's your great plan?" I ask. "Find a parachute and jump?"

  "Yes," Duncan says. There's a pause. "Well, except for the bit about the parachute."

  And with that, he pushes me over the edge, and...

  ...and the memory is gone again.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I try to work out what the hell just happened. Where did that memory come from? Was it real? I've got no idea who Olivia is or why she's give me a key, but the memory of being with Duncan, of being pushed off the edge of that building, feels so real. There's something else, too: a feeling of power. For the duration of that memory, I felt stronger. Taking a deep breath, I stare at the photo again. Even if I accept that it's real - and I don't - then there's another question: how could I fall off a tower block and still be alive today?

  I grab my phone and dial Duncan's number.

  "Do we have anything to say to each other?" he says as he answers.

  "Meet me at my place," I say. "Now."

  "Excellent," he replies. "Where is your place?"

  I give him the address, and twenty minutes later there's a knock at the door. I'm so confused and worried, I haven't even bothered to change out of my pajamas and dressing gown when I open the door and find him standing there with a curious, suspicious look on his face.

  "You called?" he says.

  "Come in," I reply, shutting the door behind him and leading him through to the kitchen. I grab the photo and hand it to him. "Any idea where this comes from?"