High Moor

by Reynolds, Graeme

  “Look,” said Steven, reaching for the whiskey bottle again, “I’ve had a really shitty day. Can you wind your neck in, stop screaming at me, and let me get my head straight.”

  “Get your head straight? That’s bloody hilarious. Your mate Johnny Walker’s going to sort it all out is he? It’ll all be alright once you finish the bottle, will it? Do you remember what we talked about, before all of this happened? We were thinking about bringing a child into the world, but now there’s a naked fucking American living in what would be the nursery, and you’re an out of work, alcoholic dosser. How could you look after a child, Steven, when you can’t even look after yourself?”

  Steven stumbled to his feet and knocked over the coffee table. The overflowing ashtray spilled across the carpet, along with the contents of his shot glass, turning the ash into a wet black stain on the cream fabric. His face contorted in anger.

  “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? The things I’ve seen? The things that I’ve had to do? You just go off to your little job, wiping people’s arses and making them cups of tea, and then come home and criticise me for trying to unwind after I’ve just seen a bunch of kids get torn to ribbons.”

  Laura’s mouth dropped open in shock, and Steven knew that he’d crossed a line. Then the front door slammed.

  Carl's voice came from the hallway. “Hey, Steve, you home? Get your butt in gear, buddy.”

  The American threw open the living room door, then paused when he saw Steve and Laura’s expressions. “Oh, sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  Laura's voice cracked with barely suppressed tears. “No, Mr Schneider. Your timing is fucking perfect. The drunken prick is all yours. I’m not putting up with this shit for a second longer.” She stomped out of the room and slammed the front door behind her. Moments later, her car started up and drove away.

  “Shit, Steve. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that I got a lead on those gypsies. From what I can tell, they…”

  “Fuck off, Carl.”

  “Hey, Man. No need to be like that. I thought you’d want to know where Joseph and his crew went.”

  “It’s not my fucking problem, Carl. I got suspended today, which more or less means I’m unemployed. There are criminal charges hanging over my head, and now it looks like my fucking wife has walked out on me, so pardon me for not giving a shit about a bunch of Gypos.”

  “Look, Buddy, I’m real sorry about that, but you need to get your head back in the game. We’ve only got three weeks till the next full moon, and not only do we have a wandering pack of werewolves to worry about, but we have two kids that will, in all likelihood, kill their entire families and everyone around them. If we don’t think of a way to deal with this, we could have an epidemic on our hands.”

  “Carl, I’m obviously not getting through that thick, fucking skull of yours, so let me make this as simple as I can. I am no longer an active police officer, so it’s nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done with this shit, and I’m done with you. Now get out of my fucking house and don’t come back.”

  Chapter 15

  31st May 1986. John's House, High Moor. 10.22.

  Marie closed the back door of her house with deliberate care. She smiled with satisfaction as the lock clicked and waited for a moment to see whether her escape had been detected. When no sounds of pursuit came from the house, she crossed the driveway and rapped on John's back door.

  She heard her mother in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes. Marie was sure that at any second she'd open the door and usher her back inside. She’d just raised her hand to knock on John's door again, when the door swung open and Mrs Simpson stood before her.

  Caroline Simpson looked tired. Her face had lost its colour, and her entire frame sagged as if carrying an invisible load. She looked down at Marie, and for a moment, said nothing. When she did speak, her voice was muted, as if the effort of speech was almost too much for her.

  "Hello, Marie. What can I do for you?"

  "Hello, Mrs Simpson. I was wondering if John was in?"

  "He should be in his room. Please, come in. You'll have to excuse the mess. I'm just about to clean the kitchen."

  Marie stepped through the door, feeling a surge of relief when it closed behind her. She headed through the kitchen, past a sink piled high with washing up, to the foot of the stairs.

  "John," yelled Mrs Simpson. "Marie's here to see you."

  Silence.

  Mrs Simpson climbed the stairs, with Marie following behind, and tapped on John's bedroom door. "John, are you in there?"

  When no reply was forthcoming, Mrs Simpson opened the door and entered John's bedroom. The room was a mess. Discarded clothes covered the bedroom floor, and books lay strewn across the bed and desk. Piles of cassette tapes containing pirated video games were stacked next to John's computer, which, along with the small portable television, was still turned on. A rope was tied to the bed and dangled out of the open window.

  Mrs Simpson put her hands on her hips. "Oh, for God's sake, the stupid little bugger will rip his stitches out if he's not careful.”

  Marie edged towards the door. She felt a sudden need to be out of the house, before Mrs Simpson started asking questions about where John might be or what he might be up to. “I'll go and find him, if you like.”

  “I'll come with you, Marie. He might be hurt from climbing out the window, or something else might have happened to him. I'll just get my coat.”

  “It's alright, Mrs Simpson. Really. There are lots of places he might be, and some of them might be a bit tricky for a grown-up to get to. It’s better if I go and look myself. I'll tell him to come straight back if I find him.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe I should check with your mother first.”

  Fear blossomed in Marie's stomach. Her parents would go mad if they found out she'd sneaked out. “Mam's really busy, Mrs Simpson, and my dad's in a funny mood. It’s fine, really. I'm allowed out as long as I don't go too far from the house.”

  “Alright, but you tell him to come straight back the second you find him. OK?”

  Marie crossed her fingers behind her back and put on her most angelic smile. “I promise, Mrs Simpson. Straight back.”

  Marie fled through the back door before Mrs Simpson could change her mind and crept around to the front of the house. When she got to the road, she turned left and sprinted up the street. She climbed over the metal gate at the end of the road, into the fields that ran behind the strip of houses, and stopped to catch her breath.

  Where would John go if he didn't want anyone to find him?

  The possibilities ran through her mind. He wouldn't go to the playground behind the housing estate because there would be lots of kids there at this time on a sunny bank-holiday Saturday. While Malcolm and his friends were under house arrest, awaiting trial, there were plenty of others that would make his life a misery. He wouldn't go into the woods because of what happened. No one went into the woods anymore. That only left one possibility. Marie checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was following, and then set off across the fields in search of her friend.

  The tree stood at the intersection of four fields. A towering oak tree, surrounded at its base by a sprawling hawthorn bush. The farmer had, for the sake of pragmatism, fenced off the bush and cut a corner out of each field to accommodate it. The effort to remove the sprawl of vegetation was not justified, considering the small increase in available land it would yield. The hawthorn appeared to be an impenetrable mass of wood, leaves and thorns on the outside. However, a couple of years ago, the children discovered that if you could crawl past the grasping branches, the interior of the bush was almost hollow.

  They had used it as a base of operations for two years until Malcolm Harrison and his gang had found out about it. The gang had destroyed the tree house constructed in the arms of the old oak and had trashed the camp inside of the hawthorn bush. Now Malcolm and his friends were out of the picture, and this was t
he only place that John could have gone.

  Marie climbed over the wooden fence, taking care to avoid the rusty barbed wire along its top, and headed for the small entrance at the side of the bush. She got onto all fours and crawled through the tunnel of thorns. She felt them tug at her clothing and scratch her arms as she pushed her way through into the cavernous interior.

  Sunlight illuminated the floor in patches where it penetrated the dense foliage, the beams of light dancing as the breeze shifted the canopy of leaves. John sat on an overturned plastic drinks crate, his back to her. He didn't seem to realise that Marie was there.

  “John? Whatcha doin?”

  John gave a start and put something into his pocket. “Nothing. I just wanted to get out of the house and be by myself. You go home, Marie. Leave me be for a while.”

  “I had to sneak out of the house as well. Mam and Dad won’t let me go anywhere after what happened. Your mam’s looking for you, by the way. She found the rope.”

  John shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Have you been to see Michael?”

  “Every day. Mam and me go to see him in the morning and at night. It’s boring as fuck, but I want to be there when he wakes up so I can slap him for making me so worried.”

  “He still unconscious? Have the doctors said anything?”

  “Yeah. He won’t wake up, but they say he’s not getting any worse and that it’s too early to tell anything for sure.” Marie walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “John, what happened at the camp? No one will tell me anything, except that it was a bear.”

  “It wasn’t a bear, Marie. It was a werewolf. It killed Mr Wilson and Miss Hicks and Brian and Dylan and Lester, then it tried to kill me and Michael.”

  “Piss off, John. Just cos I’m younger than you, it doesn’t mean I'm stupid. There’s no such thing as werewolves. Mam said so after we saw that film.”

  John turned to face Marie, and she saw no trace of humour in his eyes. No hint of a trick.

  “Really? A werewolf?”

  “Michael thought it was what killed David. He shot it with fucking fireworks and it came after us.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The police shot it and it turned into an old woman. Then a load of other werewolves took the body away. The police must have covered it all up or something.”

  “What did it look like? The werewolf?”

  “What do you think it looked like? Half man, half wolf. Fucking massive, covered in hair with teeth and claws like kitchen knives.”

  “All of them? How did the others carry the dead one away?”

  “The others were different. They changed back to people, and I saw one of them through the trees. It just looked like a big dog. Like an Alsatian, but three times the size. Like if an Alsatian shagged a Shetland pony.”

  “That’s actually pretty cool. Imagine if you could turn into a big wolf like that. I’d bite Malcolm’s bollocks off.”

  John laughed in spite of himself. “But then you’d have Malcolm’s balls in your mouth.”

  Marie looked shocked for a moment and mimed sticking her fingers down her throat. “Oh my God, that’s gross. Never ever in my life will I have any part of Malcolm Harrison in my mouth. That’s put us right off me dinner.”

  “Marie, can you promise me something?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, I mean really. Cross your heart and hope to die.”

  “Well, what is it? I’m not crossing my heart until I know what you want me to promise.”

  “Keep away from Michael on 22nd June. If he’s not out of hospital, then don’t go visit him. If he’s home, then go and stay with a friend that night.”

  “Fuck right off. You can’t tell me not to be with my brother. What if he wakes up and I’m not there? What if he doesn’t wake up at all?”

  “Listen, Michael and me survived a werewolf attack. All the books and movies say that we’ll turn into one on the next full moon. That’s 22nd June. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “Do you really think that’ll happen? You’re both going to turn into werewolves in three weeks’ time?”

  “Yes, I do. You didn’t see the thing, Marie. It was worse than anything in the movies. Every time I close my eyes, I can see it. I wake up screaming every night to the same dream. When the moon comes up, Michael and me are going to change, and we’ll hurt anyone that’s near to us when we do. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to take care of it. I won’t hurt my mam and dad, or anyone else.”

  Marie sat down next to John and took his hand. It was warm. Sticky. She looked at her hand and saw that it was slick with blood.

  “John, what did you do?”

  “I was trying to end it. Kill myself before the full moon. I couldn’t cut deep enough because I was scared. Then you turned up. I’m a coward. A fucking coward.” John’s eyes brimmed with tears and he sagged.

  “John?”

  He looked up at Marie. Her eyes blazed in fury and she punched him in the face as hard as she could.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “How could you think of doing that? Kill yourself? You survive all that, and then just cut your wrists? You are a selfish fucking bastard, John Simpson. How do you think your mam will feel?”

  “She’ll be upset, but at least she’ll be alive.”

  “OK, so what about me?”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me. One of my brothers is dead; the other is in hospital and might never wake up. Me mam wanders around the place in a daze all day, and Dad’s done nothing but drink himself unconscious since Dave died. You are all I have left. Why would you leave me too?” She threw her arms around John’s neck and sobbed.

  “Marie. It’s important. You have to promise to stay away from Michael on the 22nd. Promise me, Marie.”

  “You have to promise too. Promise you’ll stay with me and don’t do anything stupid. Then I’ll do what you say.”

  John hugged the girl tight, tears streaming across his cheeks.

  “OK, Marie. I’ll find another way to keep everyone safe. I promise.”

  ***

  31st May 1986. Hamsterley Forest. 14:45.

  Carl sat in his rented Ford Escort and lit another cigarette, disgusted at himself. I keep off the fucking things for years, and suddenly I’m back to two packs a day.

  The bank holiday traffic had been as bad as expected. The roads were packed with vehicles, and the car park at the forest visitor’s centre was completely full. Couples walked hand in hand through the shaded paths and tracks. Families talked and laughed as they made their way through the well-tended woodland. The forest was full of life and happiness as people took advantage of the sunny May afternoon.

  The tourists and dog walkers had not, however, roamed too far along this track. The presence of the traveller camp in a clearing a quarter of a mile beyond where Carl was parked had made sure of that. Cars turned around in haste when they sighted the circle of caravans. People on foot decided that it was probably best that they take another route. Carl didn’t know if it was merely their natural suspicion of travellers, or whether it was something subconscious that screamed in the deepest, oldest parts of their mind. Beware. Predators are near.

  He picked up his binoculars from the passenger seat and trained them on the camp. The gypsies seemed not to realise that he was there and went about their business. Pots of food bubbled over an open fire. Children played with an elderly Jack Russell terrier. Men returned from the forest with arms full of wood or the occasional rabbit. Women washed baskets of clothes in the stream that ran along the edge of the clearing.

  Several of the men appeared to be injured. A large dark-haired man had white linen stretched over the left side of his face. Others wore slings. A young man, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen, hobbled to the fire on crutches. His right leg was missing below the knee, and fresh blood stained the dressing.

  Ca
rl stubbed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and exhaled the last lung full against the windscreen.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Carl? What the hell do you hope to accomplish?” he said to himself.

  “I was going to ask you that exact same question, Mr Schneider.”

  Carl jumped in his seat, startled at the unexpected voice. Joseph stood by the driver’s door. He pointed a shotgun through the window at Carl’s head.

  “I wouldn’t do anything stupid if I were you. Take your gun and put it on the passenger seat, then get out of the car.”

  Carl weighed up his options and didn’t like any of them. With a sigh, he reached into his coat pocket and took out his pistol.

  “And the other one. I don’t recommend you do anything to make me nervous. This shotgun has a hair trigger, and I would hate to ruin the upholstery of your car.”

  Carl’s shoulders sagged, and he withdrew his other pistol, putting it alongside its twin on the passenger seat, then he opened the door and stepped out onto the road. Joseph took a couple of steps back and motioned towards the gypsy camp with the barrel of his gun.

  “After you, Mr Schneider.”

  The two men walked down the road to the parked caravans. Carl could see movement in the trees on either side of them.

  “Why not just kill me now and have done with it? That is what you said you would do if I came looking for you, isn’t it?”

  “I say a lot of things. Some of them are even true. At the moment, let’s just say that your fate is in your own hands and leave it at that.”

  Heads turned to regard Carl as he entered the camp. Up close, he could see that many of the people were carrying injuries, not only the men, but some of the women and children as well. Over twenty pairs of eyes followed Carl with suspicion and barely contained anger.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  “Mirela happened. She changed in the middle of the camp and attacked the first thing that she saw. Her family. Her friends.”

  “Why the hell did you keep her in the camp on a full moon? You must have known what would happen.”