He missed the first marker and had to backtrack when he reached the stepping stones over the stream. He made his way back along the track and checked each tree until he spotted the yellow plastic tag nailed to the dark shape of the pine.
He pushed his way through the undergrowth. Building their camp all the way out here seemed less and less like a good idea with every passing second. He reached the second marker, spotting it more by luck than judgement.
Not far to go. A few more minutes and I'll be at the tree house. I'll get the bastard’s tools, take the short cut back across the beck, and pray that the fat fuck passed out after dinner.
A howl echoed through the woods. The sound came from everywhere at once, resounding through the trees until it faded into silence. David felt warmth run down his leg and realised that he'd wet himself.
He stood in silence, breathing in short, sharp gasps, and listened to the sounds of the woods. He heard crashing in the undergrowth behind him. Something was heading in his direction. Fast. David sprinted towards the camp, pushing any thought of what might be behind him out of his mind.
The camp loomed up at him, its outline visible in silhouette against the full moon. The sounds of pursuit were closer now. He grasped the first plank of the makeshift ladder and climbed as if his life depended on it.
He reached the first platform and sighed with relief. His limbs trembled, and he grasped the thick trunk of the tree, holding onto it as if it were his mother. The crashing in the undergrowth stopped. David held his breath and peered over the edge of the platform.
Something made its way through the bracken towards the tree. Whatever it was, it was huge. At least the size of a full grown man, perhaps even bigger, although at this angle it was impossible to tell. David got a sense of mass and power from the shape beneath him. It wore no clothes, but seemed to be covered in something white. Fur?
The creature sniffed the air and turned its head upwards towards the terrified boy. It howled, and then David knew exactly what it was. Werewolf.
It circled the base of the tree, growling in frustration and then moved beyond David’s line of sight, under the platform. He heard ripping sounds, and despite his terror, he craned his head over the side, to look.
The monster was climbing the trunk of the tree. Claws like knives dug into the bark as it hauled itself up towards him. Its progress was slow, but it was relentless, unerring. David choked back a sob, and with shaking arms, began the climb to the second platform, only too aware that he was only gaining a temporary respite.
David reached the second platform, almost forty feet from the forest floor, just as the beast reached the first. It raised its head and howled once more at the boy.
“Fuck off!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Fuck off and bother someone else.”
The creature snarled and continued climbing the tree towards the sobbing boy nestled high in its branches.
David broke down in tears. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be torn apart and eaten by this thing that was climbing towards him. He had nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to run.
Unless…
The beast was almost half way up the tree now. Its progress slowed as the trunk thinned. Its every move sent shudders up to David in his hiding place and made the tree sway. It would be on him in moments.
An idea formed through the black wall of terror in his mind. David removed his denim jacket, wrapped the arms around his hands and threw the coat over the rope zip-line. Without a second’s thought, he launched himself into the air. He swore he felt the wind from claws slash at empty air behind him. He hit the platform and rolled across it, feeling splinters from the wooden planks embed themselves in his knees. He looked back. The werewolf was still on the tree, just beneath the highest platform. It howled in fury.
“Let’s see you get over here, you flea-bitten, mangy twat.”
The monster snarled at him and stayed where it was for a moment. David felt a wave of relief crash over him. It would have to climb down, and then climb back up this tree to get him, at which point he could escape to the lower platform and then do it all again. He could keep this up all night, or until the monster got bored and went off in search of easier prey.
The werewolf bunched its muscles and launched itself into space. It covered the distance between the trees with ease and crashed down into the tree house, through the flimsy timber roof.
David whimpered and pushed himself back into the corner. He felt something stick into his back. His father's tool bag. His hands shook as he reached inside and produced a long, sharp chisel, which he held out before him like a sword.
The werewolf got to its feet, snarled at the terrified boy, then pounced.
Chapter 5
26th March 1986. Durham Wildlife Liaison Office. 09:15.
Steven Wilkinson leaned forward in his chair and regarded the man sitting on the other side of the desk. “So? What do you think?”
“About what?”
Steven pushed the photographs across the table.
“What do you think? About these. The big cat and the attack on those sheep.”
The other man grinned, which accentuated the furrows in his face, and lit a cigarette.
“Well, which do you want to know about first?”
“What? Aren’t we talking about the same thing here?”
“Nope. One has now't to do with 'tother.”
Steven felt his patience evaporate. Matt Wilshire was a local hunter who carried out consultancy for the Police on occasions such as this. The old bugger was playing with him, and Steven was not in the mood.
“Come on, Matt. I've been chasing my tail for weeks on this case. Cut me some bloody slack and tell me about the cat.”
“What you have there is a female puma. She’s an adult, probably a good two meters in length, weighs maybe forty to forty-five pounds.”
“Any idea what it’s doing roaming the countryside south of Durham?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably released back in the 1960’s. Lots of folk kept things like that as pets before they passed the Dangerous Animals act. Then, when they had to turn them over to the authorities, some people just let them go into the wild.”
“Could one have survived in the area for nearly twenty years without anyone seeing it before?”
“Probably not. In the wild, a cat like that would probably only live ten, maybe twelve years. That cat looks like it’s a young adult, maybe five years old. Either someone turned it loose within the last couple of years, or there was a breeding pair around here not so long ago.”
“Can we track it? Capture it perhaps?”
“Hard to say with pumas. They have a huge territorial range. That cat could be thirty miles away from where that picture was taken by now, or it could be half a mile away. Depends if she’s got cubs.”
“Great. So, about the attack on the livestock. Are you telling me that a puma couldn’t kill all those sheep?”
Matt took another drag on his cigarette. “Oh, it could kill them alright. It could, but it didn’t. Not those sheep.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look at the way they've been torn up. Flesh ripped from the bones. Cats don’t feed that way. They rasp the meat off the bones with those sandpaper tongues of theirs. What did this was canine, but I suppose your lads in forensics will work that one out eventually. Like I say, two different things.”
“So, how many dogs would it take to do something like this?”
The old hunter laughed. “Depends on the dogs. A pack of Dobermans could do it a damn sight faster than a pack of Yorkshire terriers.”
Steven felt his temper flare, but managed to maintain his composure; just. “OK, then let me put it another way. What kind of dog do you think did this?”
Matt frowned. “Well, Sergeant, that’s where you’ve got me stumped. Whatever it was, it was a big bastard. Look at the bite marks. Its jaw must have been almost a foot across. Maybe some kind of cross breed. Great Dane
crossed with a Bull Mastiff and a fucking Shetland pony? Whatever it is, it’s big and it’s got a nasty temperament. You wouldn’t want that bugger to start humping your leg, I can tell you that. And if it did, you'd fake a feckin orgasm.”
This wasn't what Steven wanted to hear. Inspector Franks was adamant the cat was the problem, but Matt was telling him otherwise. He wasn’t sure what was worse: big cats breeding in the area, or some monstrous dog being let loose on livestock. He pushed a pile of papers aside and picked up the telephone. Better to break the news to Franks sooner than later. He'd dialled the first digit when the door to the office burst open. Constable Phillips stood in the doorway, sweating and out of breath.
“Sarge, you both better come with me. They’ve found a body. Torn apart like those sheep last month.”
“What? Where?”
“In the woods, in High Moor. “ Constable Phillips looked down at his boots. “And, Sarge,…it’s a kid.”
***
26th March 1986. King's Close School, High Moor. 10.45.
The children marched into the assembly hall in single file and sat in rows on the hard wooden chairs in their respective classes; youngest at the front, oldest at the back.
An elderly television set stood at the front of the hall while Mr Jones, the third year teacher, fussed with a tangle of cables that led to the school video recorder.
The low hum of muted conversation filled the hall while Mr Jones attempted to tune the television into the video player. John glanced across the room and tried to catch Michael’s eye, but the other boy just looked at his feet. Lawrence Mitchell glared back at John and slowly ran his finger across his throat.
“You are dead,” he mouthed. John ignored him and waited for his moment.
The educational videos that they were forced to watch with alarming regularity were an ordeal that none of the assembled children enjoyed. They ranged from embarrassing old programmes from the depths of time about water safety with Rolf Harris, to newer, but no less dull, items about industry or road safety. The last one they had to sit through had been about rivers or something and it had gone on for over an hour. They'd missed play time because of that one. John, however, had a plan.
Mr Jones stood up and beamed in triumph as the two white lines appeared on the TV screen. He turned off the tuning signal and retrieved today’s video tape. Miss Watson and Mr Smith closed the curtains to the hall. Shafts of sunlight pierced the darkness, and dust motes danced in the beams before winking out of existence as they passed into shadow. John fished in his pocket and retrieved a small grey box.
During the last torturous video session, John noticed that the VCR at school was exactly the same model as the one he had at home. Over the course of the last week, a plan had formed, and now he was ready to put it into action.
“Quiet please,” said Mr Jones, “That means you, Karen Burke.”
The murmur of conversation faded. Mr Jones stood for a moment until he was sure that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Today, our video is about crop rotation in the seventeenth century. This will tie into your class projects, so I expect you all to pay attention.” A chorus of groans rose from the children. Mr Jones ignored them and pressed play on the video recorder.
The television screen was filled with static and then turned black. White letters displayed the inspired title, “Crop rotation in the seventeenth century,” and a feeble rendition of Greensleeves warbled from the elderly television’s speakers. Then the tape stopped and rewound to the beginning.
Mr Jones looked confused, ran a hand across his bald head, and pressed play again.
The screen turned black once more and the first few bars of Greensleeves played, then the programme stopped and the tape ejected from the VCR.
Mr Jones made a show of examining the video cassette, then placed it back into the machine. “Er…we seem to be having some technical difficulties.”
As soon as he hit play, the tape went into fast forward. The titles flashed by, and a man in a corduroy waistcoat, not unlike the one worn by Mr Jones, appeared on the screen. The man's arms waved in the air as if performing some sort of energetic dance. At the back of the hall, someone cheered.
Mr Jones stopped the tape and ejected it, his bald head going as red as the few remaining tufts of hair around his ears. He pushed open the flap at the front of the machine and blew into it, then switched the machine off and back on again.
He squinted at the VCR with suspicion in his eyes, put the tape back into the machine, and pressed play. The titles came up and the music started. He hovered near the VCR, but the titles and the music faded and the man in the corduroy jacket appeared once more, less animated than on his previous visit. Satisfied that the machine was now behaving itself, Mr Jones walked across the hall to his seat.
The second Mr Jones sat down, the VCR started to record over the program. He flew from his seat, arms flailing, and dove at the possessed video recorder. He slipped on the polished wooden floor and landed in a tangle of gangly arms and legs in front of the first year students. The hall erupted in laughter as Mr Jones, still on his knees, hit the eject button and retrieved his precious tape from the demonic VCR.
He dusted himself off and tried to regain some dignity.
“There seems to be something wrong with the video,” he said to the sniggering masses. “I’ll call the repair man, but in the meantime you all might as well take an early break.”
A cheer rose from the hall as the children, needing no encouragement, filed out to the playground. John grinned to himself, slipped the remote control back into his pocket, and looked across to Michael. His friend was still looking at the floor and didn’t seem to have noticed the antics of Mr Jones.
Outside in the playground, John went over to Michael and Marie, who were standing alone in the corner of the tarmac play area. “Did you see Jones go flying? Man, I thought I was going to piss myself.”
“Yeah, it was pretty funny,” said Michael, without conviction.
“What’s the matter?”
Marie looked up at John with tear brimmed eyes. “David didn’t come home last night.”
“What? I saw him go in the house with you two, for tea.”
“Dad made him go back out and get the tools from the camp,” said Michael. “Dad was mad…really mad. Not seen him go off like that in ages.”
“Dave probably just stayed in the camp, out of the way, till he calmed down,” said John. “We can go round there on the way home from school and see if he’s there, if you want.”
Michael looked up and the beginnings of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s probably it, and Jones was funny as fuck back then. Don’t know what was going on with that video, but we got extra playtime so I’m not complaining.”
John rolled his eyes up and put on his most angelic expression. “Erm…I might have had something to do with that.” He removed the remote control from his pocket.
“You did that? John, you are my fucking hero. That was genius, mate. Genius.”
“John, that was brilliant,” said Marie, “and thanks for cheering us up.” She hugged him and then pulled away, her cheeks flushing scarlet.
“Oooh! John’s got a girlfriend,” shouted Lawrence Mitchell from across the playground. Heads turned to look at the three friends. Girls sniggered and whispered to each other. John felt his cheeks burn.
He balled his fists and strode forward to where Lawrence, Simon, and Billy stood. “What’s it to you Mitchell? Looking like a giant panda not good enough? You want some more?”
“You better get in line if you want to fuck the little slag,” said Billy Phillips, “I hear her brothers have first dibs.”
Michael stood by John's side. “I’ve had enough of you arseholes,” Marie joined him and the three friends faced their tormentors.
The playground erupted in cries of “fight, fight, fight,” and the rest of the children formed a circle around the combatants, eager for the violenc
e to begin.
Mr Smith pushed his way through the crowd, accompanied by two police officers, a man and a woman. “Break it up you lot. Michael, Marie? Can you come with us please? And John? I believe Mr Jones would like a word with you, about the school video recorder.”
Michael and Marie exchanged confused glances as they were led away through the playground. What had they done now?
***
26th March. Mill Woods, High Moor. 11.34.
Steven lifted the blue tape and stepped beneath it. Matt Wilshire followed behind him and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Steven, who shook his head and made his way through the bracken to the crowd of men in white forensics coveralls. One of them was being sick in the undergrowth.
Another of the forensics officers put up his hand. “You might want to stop there, Sergeant."
“Why’s that?”
The man pointed to the bracken. The vegetation was covered in congealed blood that stained the green leaves black. Swarms of flies filled the air. The forensics officer’s white coveralls were bright red below the knee.
“Jesus,” said Steven. “How far does this mess extend?”
“About ten feet in every direction around that tree,” he said, pointing to an oak tree with the remains of a tree house high in its branches.
Steven tried to take in the detail of the scene, but found his eyes skipping away from the tree.
This is ridiculous. I’m a trained police officer. There’s nothing here that I haven’t seen before a hundred times.
He forced himself to focus and discovered that he was wrong.
Red tendrils hung from the branches of the oak. At first Steven thought he was looking at paper party decorations, until he realised that they were intestines. Blood oozed through the gaps in the wooden boards of the tree house and formed large dark red drops that spattered on the forest floor with sickening regularity like some form of perverse metronome.
He followed the path of the ropes that led from the tree house to the adjacent pine and saw the wounds in the tree where something had climbed up it. The scars oozed sap as if the tree was weeping for the dead boy. He started to get a picture of what had occurred here, and it didn’t make a lot of sense.
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