High Moor

by Reynolds, Graeme

  “I suppose it is quite late. I’ve really enjoyed tonight, Marie. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

  Marie reached across the table and took his hand. “Well, you know, we might not be so young anymore, but the night still is. I’ve got a bottle of wine back at the flat I’m renting. You could come back and we could carry on talking…or something.”

  John felt panic surge in his stomach. He snatched his hand back and got to his feet. “Erm, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got an early start in the morning. I’ll give you a call later.” He put on his jacket and walked to the door, then paused and turned back to face her. “I really will call, Marie. I had a great time tonight, and it’s been amazing to see you again. I’ll talk to you soon.” Then he turned and walked out into the night.

  ***

  Marie slapped herself on the head with the palm of her hand. “Way to go, Marie. Real subtle. Nice one.” She upended the wine bottle and drained the last dregs into her glass, then downed it in a single gulp. She put her head in her hands and exhaled a long, slow breath, then looked at the empty doorway. “Bollocks.”

  ***

  1st November 2008. High Moor Town Centre. 01.25.

  From a van parked across the street, Steven watched John leave the restaurant. John appeared to be flustered. His body temperature was elevated by several degrees, according to Steven’s infrared goggles, and he appeared to be cursing as he strode down the street towards the taxi rank. He stopped after a few yards and looked back, uncertain of himself. Then he punched a wooden billboard with a force that made Steven wince and joined the back of the taxi queue. The readings on John’s body temperature returned to normal, helped by the cold night air. Steven relaxed and removed the goggles, then ejected the silver bullet from the high-powered rifle at his side.

  Things had been on the verge of going bad earlier. John’s altercation with the local meatheads had driven him to the very edge of changing. His body temperature soared, and Steven had been seconds away from putting a heavy calibre round into his skull when the woman intervened.

  The woman. Who the hell was she? John clearly knew her, but as far as Steven was aware, he’d been isolated from the rest of the world since he was a child. He thought back, trying to focus his mind through the haze of his pain medication. There had been a girl, once. Of course. He couldn't believe he’d forgotten. The Williams girl. The one that had lived next door to him. The one whose brothers had died. If John suspected that Michael was still alive, it made sense that he’d contact the sister. Satisfied that the evening’s loose ends made sense, Steven stowed his equipment and drove out of town towards his home.

  After fifteen minutes, he turned off the main road and drove through a maze of narrow lanes until he came to a pair of imposing metal gates, flanked by ten-foot-high granite pillars and high stone walls. Steven pushed a button on his key-fob. The gates slid open to allow the van access and then closed when the vehicle had passed. Floodlights clicked on across the front of the property as the infrared sensors registered the car. He pulled up to the front of the house, a former Georgian farm constructed of red brick with steel bars across all of the windows, removed the holdall that contained his weapons from the passenger seat, and walked up the steps to the front door. He punched a code into the silver numeric keypad and stepped inside.

  A high-pitched electronic whine, just above the human auditory range, made his fillings vibrate. He walked to a control panel on the wall, disabled the ultrasonic siren and the sprinkler system that would have dumped five-hundred litres of silver nitrate over every inch of the house in another ten seconds, then checked the alert logs on the motion-sensitive cameras. When he was satisfied that nothing bigger than a badger had breached the property's perimeter in his absence, he hung up his coat and walked into his sitting room with a 9mm pistol in his hand. He poured himself a brandy and went to a large corkboard that he’d installed on the rear wall.

  Post-it notes and photographs covered the board. Long-range pictures of John. Satellite photographs of the area with a red pin in the centre of Coronation Park where the attack had occurred. Coloured yarn stretched between the pictures on drawing pins. Steven picked up the yellow pad of paper and a marker pen, then wrote Marie Williams on it. He stuck the paper onto the board with pins and linked her name with John’s photograph with a length of green wool.

  He looked at the board and shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know what to make of it all. You’d probably put it together in a second, you cantankerous old bastard.”

  He walked across to a bookcase and took down a photo album. He opened it and looked at a faded Polaroid picture of Carl Schneider. “All these bloody years and you can’t let me retire in peace. Yeah, I took the money you left me, and I agreed to the conditions in the will, but for fuck’s sake, Carl, I’m an old man now. I’m dying.

  “I’ve hunted the things wherever I found them, like you wanted. I should have called it quits after '94 when the bastards were showing up everywhere, but I didn’t. All I wanted to do was come home to die in peace, and you bring it right to my bloody doorstep.”

  He tossed the photo album into the fireplace and watched as the glowing embers melted the plastic, and flames danced around the book. Carl Schneider's photograph turned up at the edges and browned as the flames grew higher. He downed the brandy in a single gulp, enjoying the warmth as it spread through him.

  “Fuck you, Carl,” he said, then turned and walked out of the room while the photographs burned.

  Chapter 26

  13th November 2008. Coronation Estate, High Moor. 14.25.

  Simon Dobbs hurried through the rows of terraced houses towards Malcolm’s home. He reached the low metal gate and paused to catch his breath before he walked up the concrete path and pushed the doorbell.

  He heard a woman’s voice inside, shouting at the children. Simon couldn’t make out the exact words, but he didn’t need to. The acidic tone left anyone listening under no illusions as to the intent of the speaker. He remembered his father referring to that particular sound as “The Mother’s voice” and that it would strike fear into the heart of any man. This was, of course, before the old man was electrocuted trying to steal live copper wire from an electrical substation. Simon was about to push the bell again, but then thought better of it and waited until the shouting subsided before he pressed the plastic button. A shadow darkened the frosted glass in the front door, and he could hear thunderous steps approaching. Then the door opened. Karen Harrison stood in the open doorway, her hands on her hips and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

  Karen had been a beauty once, when she was a teenager. A dark-haired bad girl who could drink most men under the table and was brought home by the police most Saturday nights. Time, alcohol, and the stress of raising three children had robbed her of her looks by the age of thirty. Her dark hair had turned grey, and the constant application of dye had given it the texture of straw.

  The hour-glass figure she'd maintained into her early twenties had slowly morphed into the shape of a pear, her skin was prematurely aged from twenty years of weekly sun-bed sessions, and dark rings circled her eyes. The faint purpling of an old bruise was just visible on her jaw line, despite the layers of foundation applied over it.

  “What the hell do you want, Simon?”

  “Is Mal here? I need to talk to him.”

  Karen snorted. “You’ll not get any sense out of him. He’s laid up in bed, sick. Bloody man flu if you ask me.”

  “It’s important. Can I go up?”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t blame me if you come down with it as well.”

  A crash came from the kitchen. Karen turned and stormed away from the front door to investigate the noise, leaving it open behind her. Simon stepped inside and closed the door, then went upstairs as quietly as he could so not to incur Karen’s wrath.

  He knocked on the bedroom door and waited. When there was no reply, he opened the door a crac
k and eased his way inside.

  “Mal? You alright, mate?”

  Malcolm lay in the bed, covered in sweat. The duvet was drenched and thrown to the side. “Course I’m not alright. I’m fucking dying here. Told that bitch to call an ambulance, but do you know what she said?”

  Simon shrugged. “No idea?”

  “She said it was nothing but a cold from one of the kids and told me to take two bloody aspirins.”

  “Well, I’ve got some news that might make you feel a bit better. We found him.”

  “Found who?”

  “John sodding Simpson. Who do you think? Billy’s brother-in-law works at the builders' merchants, and he said that he’d been in and out of there for the last few weeks. His address was on the invoices.”

  Malcolm managed a smile. “Nice one. Any sign of the bitch?”

  “Na, no idea where she’s at. We’ll have to make do with putting him in hospital for now.”

  “Well, as soon as I get over this flu, we’ll go over there and have a nice little chat with our friend John. That’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  “I don’t know if we can wait that long. Lawrence was out there earlier and he saw him putting suitcases in his car. It looks like he’s packing up and leaving. We’re gonna go over there tonight, just after it gets dark.”

  “Not without me, you’re not. Hold on and I’ll get ready.” Malcolm tried to stand up, but collapsed back onto the bed. He reached for the bucket by his side, and added to its already considerable contents.

  “Mal, you’re in no fit state to be anywhere but bed. We’ll sort it out. Me, Lawrence, and Billy all owe that bastard at least one broken bone each. I’ll record it on my phone and send the video over to you. Might make you feel a bit better.”

  “Simon, I’m telling you. Don’t do this without me. Just hang on a couple more days.”

  “Sorry, mate, but we can’t risk him fucking off to God-knows-where again. This might be the only chance we get. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. You just concentrate on getting better,” he said, then turned and left the room without another word.

  ***

  Malcolm lay on his bed for a while and scratched at the infected scab on his knuckles. “Bastards. The lot of them are a bunch of bastards. Just wait till I’m better. I’ll sort them all out. I’ll…” Then the nausea bubbled up from inside again, and he returned his attention to the bucket at his bedside.

  ***

  13th November 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 15.02.

  Steven checked his harness and hoisted himself off the ground, up to the platform that nestled in the bare arms of an oak tree. The tree trunk was over eight feet across and had fabric strips wrapped around its entire surface. Rows of silver-tipped spikes protruded from the material. Steven remembered his first ever encounter with a werewolf, less than a hundred yards from the tree that he ascended. He did not want a repeat of that experience.

  The platform was a solid piece of engineering, secured to the branches and trunk of the old oak with half-inch-thick steel bolts. Branches had been removed at strategic points to allow Steven a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the woods around him. A high-powered rifle with a night vision sight rested in a weapons rack bolted to the platform’s base. A small goat, chained to an iron spike in the ground, waited in a clearing to the west of Steven’s hide.

  He had thought about the best way to handle High Moor’s latest werewolf. There were two options. If The Pack were trying to flush John out of hiding, then the effort and expense of setting this trap would have been wasted. They would ignore the goat and go for John. If John managed to survive the attack, then the problem was solved. If John fell to the other werewolves, then they would, in all likelihood, leave the area afterwards, in which case the problem was also solved.

  If, however, this had nothing to do with The Pack, and he was dealing with a lone lycanthrope, then the trap should bring it right to him, like it had done so many times before. Again, the problem would be solved and he could go back to what remained of his life.

  The sky had cleared earlier that day, and the last of the afternoon sun shone through the trees from a clear blue sky, although the air remained cold with a chill wind gusting from the northwest. Without cloud cover, the night temperature would drop like a stone. Steven imagined the uncomfortable night ahead and did not relish the thought.

  “This is the last bloody time. I’m too old to be climbing trees in the middle of the night, waiting for monsters. You hear me, Carl? After tonight, I’m done. You’ve had your money’s worth.”

  The only answer was the rustle of wind in the bare branches of the trees and the roosting calls of the birds. Steven settled into the padded seat bolted to the centre of the platform, poured himself a coffee from the thermos flask by his side, and waited for his prey to take the bait.

  ***

  13th November 2008. Treworgan Farm, High Moor. 16.14.

  The last twinkling rays of sunlight glimmered on the horizon and then vanished. It would be dark within the next hour. The moon was due to rise an hour after that. John put the last of his clothes into a suitcase and looked around the room. Everything he needed was packed, along with a few precious mementos that he’d come across. The rest could rot as far as he was concerned.

  He lugged the case downstairs and placed it in the hall, next to several other bags, then looked at the closed basement door. He’d failed here. He wasn’t even sure what he thought he could achieve. Steven was right. His presence in his hometown was risky at best. He’d sensed nothing of another werewolf, and Marie hadn't returned any of his calls after their last disastrous encounter. There was nothing left for him here. He'd lock himself up for the night and leave first thing in the morning.

  He jumped at the sound of his mobile telephone and dashed across the room to where it rested on the windowsill. The phone’s display showed the name of the caller. Marie.

  He picked it up and placed it to his ear, trying to control the butterflies in his stomach and the sudden lack of strength in his arms.

  “Hello? Marie?”

  “John? Hi. Listen, I’m sorry for not calling you sooner. I’ve been a bit busy, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the way we left things.”

  “Marie, I’m so sorry for that. I panicked. I’d had a few drinks and I thought we might end up…well.”

  “I thought we might as well. Was the thought of that so bad?”

  “Oh God, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that…well…I’ve got something wrong with me. A kind of contagious blood infection. I didn’t want to risk you getting sick.”

  “An infection? You mean like Hep C or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that. It’s pretty rare. I don’t even think the doctors have a proper name for it. It’s spread through body fluids, and I couldn’t risk kissing you, no matter how much I wanted to.”

  “You can catch it through kissing? Is that how you got it?”

  “No, I’ve had it since I was a little kid. It’s manageable, but not something I would be prepared to inflict on someone else. I admit, I handled it badly.”

  The line was silent for a moment. “So, if you’ve had this since you were a kid, does that mean you’ve never kissed anyone? Ever?”

  John’s face flushed. “No. Never. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “So…if you’ve never been kissed, does that mean…oh my God, are you still a virgin?”

  Now it was John’s turn to be silent. He had no idea how to have this sort of conversation. He’d never needed to before. He tried to sort out the jumble of words and emotions that flooded his skull before he answered. “Erm…technically…yes.”

  “Oh, John, you silly bugger. We need to talk. Now. Can I come over?”

  John felt the tug of the rising moon in his blood. Somewhere deep inside, the beast stirred from its dreams. “I really can’t tonight, Marie. I know this looks like I’m giving you the brush-off again, but I’m not. Can we meet up to
morrow morning? Maybe grab a coffee or something?”

  “John, this can't wait. There are some things I need to tell you. Things you need to know. I’m coming over.”

  “No, please. I have to go away tonight. Business meeting in Bradford. I’ll be back in the morning. We can talk then.”

  “John, I’m coming over now. See you in a bit.”

  “No, Marie, wait!” he said, but the only response was the dial tone. He tried to redial Marie’s number, but the phone went straight to voicemail. “Listen, Marie. Don’t come over here tonight. I’m begging you. Please. Call me in the morning and I’ll explain everything. Just promise me that you’ll stay away from here tonight.”

  John put his phone down and massaged his temples. “Great. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  ***

  13th November 2008. Shafto Road, High Moor. 16.43.

  Marie disconnected the call and turned her mobile off. John was proving to be a neurotic mess, no wonder, considering his upbringing and lack of human contact. She’d caught glimpses of the real John Simpson at the restaurant, once he relaxed and let his guard down. She wanted to see that man again, to rescue her childhood friend from the prison that he’d built himself. It wasn’t going to be easy though, especially given his reluctance to talk to her tonight.

  She realised that she didn’t care. There were a whole lot of things that had been left unsaid, and it was time to get it all out in the open. Time to stop playing games. Leaving it until tomorrow would give John time to build his defences to the point where she might not be able to break through. It had to be tonight. She pulled on her coat, put her car keys in the pocket of her jeans, then opened the front door and stepped out into the night.

  The cold air stung her cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill as she took the concrete stairs down to the street. The tarmac arteries of the town were clogged with traffic, commuters heading home after the day’s work, or parents taking their children home from school. She crossed the street to the car that she’d been renting.