“Mr Schneider, you know almost nothing about us. Under normal circumstances, when we are poisoned with silver, we cannot change for more than a month. Not until the poison is out of our system. My best guess is that, as Mirela survived being shot with silver twice, she may have built up a degree of resistance. It was my error in judgement, and I shall bear the consequences of that for the rest of my days.”
“How many people did you lose?”
“Seven, including my wife Yolanda. Some of us managed to change and drive her away before she could kill any more. Once we had tended to our wounded, we pursued her and, well, you know what happened then.”
“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth very little, but thank you anyway.” Joseph opened the door to a large mobile home and motioned for Carl to go inside.
“Take a seat, Mr Schneider. I’d like to talk about why you're here.”
Carl moved a folded blanket from a chair and sat down. “I’m here because I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t left. I needed to know what you were up to and whether you were going to be a problem.”
“You’ve seen those outside. They are the lucky ones. Most of the other injured are recuperating in their caravans. They are too badly hurt to move far.”
“Then why not get them proper medical help?”
Joseph laughed. “You think it’s that simple? Leaving aside the questions that would be asked with so many wounded, what do you think would happen if someone were to look at our blood through a microscope? The risk of exposing ourselves would be too great. If humans had definitive proof of our existence, then they'd hunt us down and exterminate us. This brings me to my second reason for staying.”
“The boys?”
“Yes. Those children are infected. They will change on the next full moon. Whether they are like us when they change, or like Mirela, remains to be seen, but if I had to make a guess, I would say the latter is more likely.”
Carl nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of. So you're hanging around for what? To see what happens? Or are you intending to do something about it?”
“We haven’t decided yet. There are other factors to take into consideration.”
“What other factors?”
“The involvement of the Pack for one. When Mirela became afflicted, I fled the Pack to protect her. They order all Moonstruck to be killed. No exceptions.”
“Why?”
“In part, it’s to maintain secrecy. A moonstruck werewolf is a savage beast, incapable of rational thought. It is inevitable that, sooner or later, one would provide irrefutable evidence of our existence. The other reason is fear. We heal from most injuries very quickly unless the damage is severe. Not even silver is guaranteed to kill us, although it inhibits the healing process. The claws and teeth of another werewolf though? Well, you can see the results of that outside.”
“You don’t heal from injuries inflicted by another werewolf?”
“We do, but it takes time. It won’t be until another lunar cycle has passed that our bodies will repair the damage.”
“So, let me get this straight. You think the Pack are here? Now?”
Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr Schneider. I would say that it’s possible. Even likely. If they are here, they will stop at nothing to protect our secret. That puts everyone around those children in grave danger.”
“Jesus. If I am honest, Joseph, I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do here.”
“The solution is obvious, Mr Schneider. You need to kill both of those boys before the next full moon.”
Chapter 16
21st June 1986. Neville’s Cross. 13.00.
The sound of the telephone reverberated through the house, waking Steven, who was asleep on the sofa. The noise hurt his head as if the sound had solid spikes that caught against the inside of his skull and tugged on brain matter. His head span and he stumbled to his feet, kicking a plate across the floor. It broke as it collided with the coffee table. Steven swore and staggered to the hallway.
If this is some bastard trying to sell me something, there’ll be hell to pay.
He snatched the handset from its cradle. “What?”
A child’s voice answered. Small and uncertain. “Hello? Is that Sergeant Wilkinson?”
Steven rubbed his eyes with his free hand and tried to force his mind into focus. “Yes, this is Steven Wilkinson. Who is this?”
“It’s John Simpson. You told me to call you if I needed to.”
Steven felt like someone had just dropped him into a bath of ice. His mind cleared in an instant, and his hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles turned white. “John. Of course. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know what to do. The full moon’s tomorrow night and I’m scared.”
“John, calm down. We don’t know for sure that anything’s going to happen.”
“I do. I know.”
Steven pulled a stool out and sat down. “How do you know, John?”
The line was silent for a moment. “I…I tried to kill myself. I cut my wrists.”
Steven was appalled. “You did what? Do your parents know?”
“It healed up. It healed up nearly straight away. I know you said that I had to take care of it, but I can’t.”
“I didn’t…I mean, oh fucking hell. John, I didn’t mean for you to try and hurt yourself. You’re not going to try anything like that again, are you?”
John sniffled down the phone. “No, it’s no use. It just hurts and then it’s like I never did anything. I wanted to know if you could lock me up? Put me in prison so I don’t hurt anyone.”
“I wish I could, John, but I’m not a police officer anymore. Not really. I can’t get access to any cells, and even if I could, the other policemen would never let me lock up a ten-year-old boy.”
“But the healing. That means I’m going to change, doesn’t it?”
Steven sighed. “Yes, it probably does.”
“Can you take me away somewhere, then? Somewhere far away from anyone, so that I won’t hurt anybody when it happens?”
Steven thought about this for a moment. “John, are your parents home today?”
“Yes, Dad’s out in the garden and Mam’s cooking.”
“Alright, I’m going to come round and see you all. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, OK?”
“OK. Thank you, Sergeant Wilkinson.”
Steven put the phone down and ran a hand over three days of beard.
“Steven, you’re a fucking idiot. You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” he said to himself. He put the kettle on and made a cup of strong black coffee while he tried to think about what he'd say to John’s parents.
***
21st June 1986. Outside John's House, High Moor. 13.15.
Carl sat in the rear of the Ford Transit van and waited. He'd wound down the driver's side window not only to allow some air to circulate in the stifling heat of the June afternoon, but to allow him a clear line of sight on his target. He eased aside the blanket that hung behind the front seats with the silenced barrel of his rifle and focused the sights on the red telephone box down the street.
Can I do this? Can I really blow the head off a ten-year-old boy in cold blood?
Joseph’s warnings ran through his mind, and he wiped the sweat from his brow. The door to the telephone box opened, and John Simpson stepped out into his crosshairs.
Just like any other shot. Concentrate on your breathing. Feel the target. Anticipate its movement. Breathe and squeeze.
His finger touched the trigger. Cold metal against warm skin. The finger curled around the trigger and tightened until he felt the pressure point. That final resistance before the weapon fired and a young boy lay dead in the street.
An elderly couple emerged from the house next to the telephone box and called to John. The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder while the woman took his hand and talked to him. The three of them walked away, past Carl in his h
iding place, towards John’s home. The boy reached the front door, waved to the old couple, and vanished back inside.
Carl hadn't realised that he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled with a whoosh of air, clicked the safety catch on his rifle, and put it down beside him.
Time was running out fast. The damn kid hardly ever went outside, and this had been a golden opportunity. Maybe the last clear shot he'd get. Carl cursed himself for not firing when John was in the telephone box.
He disassembled the rifle, placed the parts into a flight case, picked up a bottle of water, and got out of the van. He was exhausting his options. Short of marching up to the house and forcing his way inside, then shooting the kid at point blank range, there weren't many choices left open to him. There was just one more thing he could try. Carl locked the van and walked across the pub car park to gates that lead to the fields behind John’s house.
***
21st June 1986. John's House, High Moor. 15.20.
John paced the floor in his bedroom, kicking clothes out of his way. Marie sat at his desk, playing a game on John’s computer.
“Do you want a go, John? I’ve had loads of turns, and you haven’t played once?”
“No, it’s OK, Marie. You carry on.”
“Well, can you stop doing that? It’s doing my bloody head in.”
John stopped walking and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry. It’s just…you know.”
Marie nodded and paused the game. “Do you want to go outside, then? Just in the garden, like?”
John looked out of his bedroom window. The sun blazed down from a clear June sky. A light breeze moved the tops of the trees, and a wood pigeon called from somewhere across the fields. John tried to spot the bird, but a glint of light, like someone flashing a mirror caught his eye. He searched the field, but couldn’t locate the source of the flash again. He shrugged. “Sure, it’s too nice a day to be cooped up in here.”
The children stampeded down the stairs, much to the disgust of John’s mother, who complained vocally yet couldn't keep the smile from her eyes. She made the children a glass of lemonade each and sent them out to the garden after extracting a solemn promise from them both that they'd not go any further. John and Marie agreed in unison, and John winked at Marie when his mother turned away.
“I saw that, John,” said his mother, still with her back to the two children. “You go outside of that garden, and you’ll be grounded until you’re thirty. I mean it.”
John and Marie exchanged fearful glances and ran for the back door. They stood outside and burst into gales of laughter.
“How does your mam do that?”
“I dunno. She must have eyes in the back of her head or summit. She can hear a mouse fart from three doors down as well.”
“I heard that, John,” said his mother’s disembodied voice from the kitchen.
John and Marie looked at each other and sprinted through the back gate into the garden, hands covering their mouths to hold in the laughter.
John’s dad was at the bottom of the garden picking up dead wood from under the trees and chopping back the rampant brambles that were threatening to choke Mrs Simpson’s expensive ornamental shrubs. He waved to the two children as they entered the garden, and they ran down to see him.
“Are you going to make a fire for that lot, Dad?”
“Yeah. Do you want to help?”
“I can make it. I learned how in Scouts.”
George Simpson thought about this for a moment. “OK, just be careful. Fire’s dangerous, and you need to treat it with respect. Those aren’t your good clothes are they?”
“No, Dad,” John lied, “I’ll be really careful, and we can’t go anywhere else and we’re so bored. You’ll be here anyway.”
“Alright, but don’t make it too big. I don’t want the trees catching on fire.”
John and Marie set about the building of the fire. John made a pyramid of larger pieces of wood while Marie, under John’s instructions, filled the centre with smaller sticks and twigs. Eventually, John declared that the fire met his standards and removed a box of matches from his pocket. He bent over and struck a match, cupped his hands around the flame, and held it beneath some of the kindling. The flame lapped around the wood, and after a moment, leaped to an adjacent piece, then another and another until it reached some of the larger sticks. John and Marie stood back from the roaring fire with their hands on their hips and satisfied smiles on their faces.
“Well done, you two. I’m impressed,” said George. “Would you like a drink of anything?”
Marie smiled at him. “A glass of water would be nice, Mr Simpson.”
John swatted at a mosquito that whined past his ear as he bent to retrieve his glass. “Can I have another lemonade please, Dad?”
“Of course you can. I’ll be back in a second. Don’t get too close to that fire,” said George as he headed back to the house.
***
George made his way back up the garden and was surprised to find a man standing by the gate. “Hello? Can I help you?”
“Mr Simpson, I’m Steven Wilkinson, and we need to talk about your son.”
George paused for a moment, unable to recall where he had heard that name before. Then the penny dropped and he stormed up the garden.
“You’ve got a fucking nerve coming here, you bastard. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t knock your bloody head off, right here, right now.”
“Because you’d be assaulting a police officer for a start. Look, just hear me out, and I’ll leave. There doesn’t have to be any trouble. I saved your son’s life. You owe me that much.”
George put down the two glasses and opened the gate. “Come on then. You’ve got five minutes. We’ll talk down here, away from the house.”
The two men walked halfway down the garden and stood under a tree, far enough away from the children and the house that their conversation could not be overheard.
“Look, Mr Simpson, I don’t blame you for thinking I'm a lunatic. Four months ago, I'd have thought the same. But I’ve seen these things on two separate occasions now, and there is absolutely no doubt as to what it was that attacked your son.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened that night. Your version.”
“OK. Well, we’d been hunting the thing since the first killing. I had no idea what we were dealing with, and my associate, Carl, didn’t bother to tell me. Bastard let me find out firsthand, and it almost finished me. We heard about a sighting over the police radio, and I remembered that the scouts sometimes camped in the grounds of Fenwick Hall, so we drove over there to check on things. When we got there, we saw it trying to get two boys hiding behind the iron bars of a crypt. We shot it, and this seven-foot-tall, bipedal monster turned back into an old woman. Then a bunch of naked gypsies came out of the trees and took the body away.”
“And you just let them?”
“There wasn’t much choice. I got the impression that there were more of them than I had bullets left, and they didn’t look like they were going to come quietly if I tried to arrest them.”
George looked hard into Steven’s eyes. “So, let’s say for a second that it really did happen like that. What makes you think my son is going to turn into one of those things tomorrow night?”
“Carl has hunted these things all his life, and you’ve seen the movies. You have to at least consider it. Look, all I am asking is to keep an open mind and take precautions. If I’m wrong, then nothing happens and I’ll happily let you punch my lights out. If I’m right though, then you and your wife are in terrible danger.”
“Well, I’m sorry, officer, but it sounds like a load of bollocks to me. You’ve had your five minutes, now piss off before I lose my fucking temper.”
“He’s telling the truth, Dad.”
George turned to face his son and realised John was holding a burning branch in his fist. Flames engulfed John’s hand and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. George grabbed his
son’s arm and knocked the burning wood out of his grasp. He plunged John’s hand into a nearby water butt.
“Oh God, call an ambulance, for Christ’s sake.”
“Dad,” said John as he took his hand from the water and showed it to his father. “I’m fine.”
George examined his son’s hand for burns, but it was spotless, washed clean by the cold water. “Why the hell did you do something so stupid?”
“It was the only way to show you that he’s telling the truth.”
George Simpson hugged his son, tears running down his face. He turned to Steven, who was running his fingers around a hole in the trunk of a tree.
“I’m going to have to think about this, Sergeant Wilkinson. I really don’t know what to do for the best.”
Steven pulled out a flattened lump of silver metal from the hole and looked up, across the fields.
“Well, don’t take too long over it, George,” he said, his eyes never leaving the tree line. “If I were you, I’d get all of my thinking done well before tomorrow night.”
***
Carl lined the crosshairs up on the centre of Steven’s face. Steven glared right back at him. There was no way the police officer could see Carl from this distance, but he knew he was there, and the effect was quite unnerving.
He chuckled to himself as he disassembled the rifle and put it back into its case. “OK, Stevie. This one’s all yours.”
Chapter 17
22nd June 1986. John's House, High Moor. 19.15.
John hammered on the dining room window. “Marie. Marie, don’t do it. You promised me.”
Marie turned her head to look at John as her mother opened the car door. She shrugged her shoulders and blew him a kiss, then got into the back seat and closed the door. Moments later, the car started and pulled away, taking Marie and her mother to the hospital, to visit Michael.
John ran into the living room. “Dad, we have to stop them.”
George was watching the football on the television. The world cup quarter finals were on, and England was playing Argentina. He didn’t take his eyes from the TV set. “Stop who? What are you talking about?”
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