by Rohan Gavin
It was a modern-day Fagin’s lair. Some twenty youths of indeterminate age and ethnicity were assembled in the centre of the space, all with hoodies pulled up and drawstrings fastened to conceal their identities. Some were masked as well. The two Rottweilers, along with another four identical dogs, were standing perfectly poised, flanking a truly astonishing figure who dominated the front row. He was well over six feet tall, somewhere in his late forties, wearing a quilted nylon waistcoat and a white button-down shirt, ripped jeans and trainers – all of which barely seemed able to accommodate his massive frame. His shoulders hunched aggressively around a cluster of muscles that made up his neck. His chest expanded with each quick breath and his biceps visibly flexed under the shirt, resolving into thick forearms and huge hands. He appeared to be an animal only partially contained in human form.
His face was not obscured. He clearly felt no need to disguise himself. His cranium resembled a piece of chiselled granite, his shaved head and massive brow overpowered a pair of darkly shining eyes with unusually small irises, a straight nose, an angular jaw and a thin, cruel mouth.
Darkus’s catastrophiser whirled and he turned back up the stairs, but the door of the flat slammed shut, trapping them in this hellhole. The six Rottweilers silently bared their teeth at Wilbur, saliva dripping from their gurning mouths. Wilbur stuck close to his master as they descended from a sort of gallery, ringed with floodlights, which illuminated their reception committee.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the figure said in a deep monotone. ‘I’m Barabas King.’
Darkus recognised the name from the Knowledge. Barabas King. He began flicking through the contents of his mind to locate the relevant information. He felt adrenalin flood his system, raising his heart rate, leaving him jittery but numb. He tried to remain calm and plucked up enough courage to open his mouth. ‘Are you telling me because you intend to kill me?’
‘I’m telling you because you probably already know,’ King replied dismissively. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Master Knightley.’
Darkus nodded, finding the relevant file in his head, then reciting from it: ‘Notorious London crime boss. Your father was unknown. Your mother tragically died during childbirth. You spent time in and out of prison your whole life – not to mention several psychiatric institutions. As I recall you were sectioned under the Mental Health Act for the best part of a decade. It would seem their work was not successful.’
King shrugged his huge shoulders, listening to his biography. ‘Please. Go on.’
‘Despite repeated allegations of extortion, blackmail and murder, you haven’t had a single conviction in the last nine years,’ Darkus went on. ‘Nothing would stick. “Teflon” is the modern parlance. You’re even rumoured to have filed down your own teeth to strike terror into your opponents –’
King smiled, his lips curling open to reveal a set of razor-sharp teeth, like dagger points. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he snarled.
Darkus swallowed hard. ‘The question is . . . what are you doing with a pack of highly trained dogs? And who’s your master?’
‘I don’t answer to anyone,’ he replied, his voice tinged with violence.
King looked at one of the hoodies, then nodded in the direction of a window high on the opposite wall. The hoodie pulled a cable, which raised a shade to reveal a view of a modern glass-fronted skyscraper located only a few streets away. The building was brightly lit, its offices all populated, even after hours.
‘You see how close that is?’ King asked. ‘That’s the Empress State Building. Home to close to a thousand Metropolitan Police officers. But d’you think any of them ever stray on to my turf?’ He laughed twice, like the sharp double tap of an automatic weapon. ‘Never. They’re too afraid of what might happen to them. It’s the law of the jungle over here. People get eaten.’
Darkus made a mental note of that last sentence. ‘And I suppose it’s no coincidence,’ he remarked, pointing at the Rottweilers, ‘that dogs matching their description have been tracking and murdering senior police officers during the full moon.’
‘Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war . . .’ King said theatrically.
‘Julius Caesar, Act Three, Scene One,’ Darkus replied. ‘But this isn’t Shakespeare.’
‘But it is war,’ King continued. ‘This city has declared war on a whole breed of us. They’re trying to wipe us out, but they won’t use guns or knives. That’s far too messy. They use money and influence. Councils, bureaucrats and property magnates.’ He spread his rippling, muscled arms like a pair of wings. ‘Do you know why I’ve torn the heart out of this building . . . ?’
Darkus studied the galleries and ropes disguised among the innards of the building, then shook his head.
‘Because it’s already tagged for demolition,’ King purred. ‘Every building in a one-mile radius . . . history. It’s going to be a playground for the rich, bought and paid for by foreign money. No one’s going to live here,’ he spat. ‘This city’s looking to stamp us out.’
‘What’s that got to do with killing police officers?’
‘You take something of mine, I take something of yours. It’s survival of the fittest. Not the smartest.’
The last comment appeared to be aimed at Darkus personally, but Darkus wasn’t buying it. ‘They’re not ordinary police officers,’ he went on. ‘They’re members of the Department of the Unexplained. An elite branch of Scotland Yard.’
‘Your point being?’ said King.
‘Are more officers going to be targeted at the next full moon?’ Darkus demanded, before going further. ‘Are you working for an organisation known as . . . the Combination?’
‘I sell my services to the highest bidder. What do the authorities expect?’ King sneered at the Empress State Building through the window. ‘They want a city with no residents? A city with all the lights off?’ He smiled, exposing his pointed teeth. ‘I’ll make the most of the dark.’
Darkus examined his enemy closely. ‘My dad believes there’s a werewolf loose in London. On Hampstead Heath, to be precise.’
‘Your father has a wild and unbridled imagination,’ King replied.
‘Yes, he does. But sometimes he’s right.’
‘Then he’ll have to wait until the full moon to find out.’
‘I’m not prepared to wait that long,’ said Darkus. ‘My dad was attacked in the early hours of this morning by a man that – at a distance – fits your description.’
‘Unfortunately I don’t see you lasting till the next full moon.’ King reached behind his back and drew out a long samurai blade that hummed with sharply honed precision. He pointed it at Darkus’s face, then lowered it to Wilbur’s eyes.
‘I understand.’ Darkus felt his adrenalin surging. ‘This is your territory. We appear to have made a wrong turn. We won’t bother you again . . .’
Darkus scanned the chamber for exits, then surveyed the group of hoodies who stood impassively before him. Then Darkus’s eyes stopped on one face that was a little less well disguised than the rest. A shock of green hair protruded from the hood. Darkus’s mouth began to form her name, until . . .
Tilly subtly shook her head, indicating that Darkus should under no circumstances blow her cover. Darkus widened his eyes to indicate that some sort of rescue attempt would be appreciated. Tilly flicked her eyes to the left. Beside her stood Brendan Doyle, the school bully, who was also, Darkus now deduced, the hoodie who had picked her up on the scooter outside Wolseley Close. Darkus cursed his sloppy reasoning skills and lack of foresight.
King walked closer, tracing the tip of the blade over Darkus and Wilbur as if deciding what part to cut first.
Behind them, Tilly quietly slipped her hand into Doyle’s hoodie pocket, unnoticed, and removed his phone. She checked it was on silent, then dialled a number she’d committed to memory and let it ring, before concealing the phone in her own pocket. Doyle was none the wiser.
‘Perhaps we can come to some sort o
f arrangement . . .’ Darkus postured.
King looked down at Wilbur, then turned back to the six hungry Rottweilers, who began to stomp their paws in anticipation. King returned his gaze to Wilbur.
‘Perhaps we can,’ King went on. ‘Do you like sport? Oh, don’t worry, my dogs are very friendly.’ The Rottweilers were almost hopping up and down, the drool puddling beneath their chests, their stubby tails wagging at impossible speed.
Wilbur stood firm, but his jowls quivered with fear.
Tilly glanced down at the phone in her pocket and saw that the call had been answered. She clutched the handset to mute any sound. SO 42 would be tracing the call at this very moment, if they had any sense.
‘No offence, but they don’t really look that friendly,’ Darkus responded.
King smiled, then turned to his dogs. ‘Dinner!’
The Rottweilers lunged forward, their paws clawing at the concrete, gaining traction as they raced across the floor towards Darkus and Wilbur, until . . .
King snapped his fingers loudly and all six dogs skidded to a halt obediently, waiting for instruction.
‘You see, they’re very good dogs,’ King said proudly, then turned to address the canines. ‘Eat slowly. It’ll be more enjoyable . . .’
Darkus felt his bowels loosen and a chill run down his spine. He looked wide-eyed at Tilly, who looked as alarmed as he did. King raised his hand to give the command to eat – then stopped.
The six Rottweilers had all sat down on the spot and were staring in the direction of the window. King followed their gaze. Outside a single siren could be heard approaching the building, casting a blue light across the chamber. It was followed by a second siren and a third. A murmur travelled through the assembly.
King barked orders quickly. ‘Dogs, heel!’ The Rottweilers raced to his side and sat in formation. He pointed to Darkus and Wilbur, then turned to the hoodies. ‘Get ’em out of here! Form a perimeter.’
A pair of lift doors slid open at the end of the room. Darkus and Wilbur were grabbed and manhandled into a waiting lift car, flanked by hoodies. Wilbur barked at their assailants until Darkus brought him to heel.
‘Not yet, boy, we’re outnumbered.’
The lift descended smoothly with the hoodies jostling each other for position. Darkus found Tilly pressed in next to him, with Doyle beside her.
‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ Doyle muttered. ‘You’re not one of us, you’re one of them.’
‘He’s right,’ added Tilly, as she quietly slipped Doyle’s phone back into his hoodie pocket without him seeing.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Darkus responded.
‘Today you live,’ warned Doyle. ‘But tomorrow you’ll pay.’
The lift doors opened on to the entrance hall, revealing a row of police cars waiting in the driveway with Uncle Bill in the centre.
Doyle tightened the drawstrings of his hoodie to obscure his face, then shoved Darkus out towards the waiting police presence.
Both Darkus and Doyle turned to look for Tilly, but she’d vanished.
The hoodies formed a protective vanguard around the entrance as Uncle Bill approached, taking the cigar from his mouth and tossing it to the tarmac, stubbing it out with his orthopaedic loafer for effect.
‘A’right, huiddies.’ His words had no effect. ‘Move along, ye hear?’
The youths didn’t move an inch. The rest of the police officers appeared too afraid to intervene. Darkus approached the line of cars.
‘Ye a’right, Darkus?’ said Bill with concern.
Darkus nodded. ‘Just about.’
‘I smell coffee,’ said Bill, intrigued. ‘D’ye think it’s for us?’ His face brightened. ‘D’ye think they’ll have biscuits?’
‘They’re using it to disguise their scent,’ Darkus replied flatly.
‘Ay course, I knew tha’, I knew tha’,’ blustered Bill.
‘The real villain is inside,’ explained Darkus. ‘Wait here, boy,’ he told Wilbur, who obediently went to Captain Reed’s side.
‘Lead on,’ said Bill, then addressed the hoodies. ‘Come on, break it up, break it up –’
Bill forced his way through the centre of the line-up, stepping on toes and scuffing trainers. Darkus followed in his wake, the way a car might follow the path of a snowplough.
Darkus walked ahead to the lift and stabbed the call button. The polished steel doors opened again and they stepped inside. Darkus pressed the button for the top floor.
Moments later, they were walking along the communal balcony towards the red door at the end of the row. The various residents looked up from their kitchen counters as Uncle Bill doffed his hat and flashed his badge at each in turn. Bill arrived at the red door, rapped on it and reached for the handle.
‘Be careful –’ warned Darkus, getting there first.
He knelt down low and nudged it open – then fell back as a miniature schnauzer raced to the door and began yapping furiously.
‘Shut up!’ an elderly man’s voice yelled at the dog. Footsteps followed it to the door, which was pulled open to reveal a seventy-year-old man in a bathrobe and slippers. ‘Can I help you?’
Darkus got to his feet, puzzled.
‘Ye sure this is the right one?’ Bill asked him. Darkus nodded. ‘We have a warrant,’ Bill went on, trying to uncrumple a piece of paper.
‘Be my guest,’ said the old man and ushered them in.
Darkus walked straight to the left-hand door and opened it, expecting to find the set of stairs descending into the chamber – but instead he found an elderly lady, with her feet on an ottoman, watching TV. Darkus ran his hand along the walls, which were adorned with ageing paintings and built in cupboards. He tapped on each one but the construction felt solid. There was no sign of any secret chamber whatsoever.
Darkus examined the faces of the elderly couple, but they were either completely unaware, vaguely senile, or professional actors. Concluding that any one of these theories was equally plausible, but equally impossible to prove, Darkus realised he’d been outplayed.
He turned to Bill. ‘I was held hostage by the crime boss, Barabas King . . . right here in this room. In a chamber below this room to be precise.’
Uncle Bill fumbled for his walkie-talkie. ‘A’right all units, search the entire building.’
‘He’ll be long gone by now,’ said Darkus, perplexed.
‘Well, whadd’ye suggest we dae?’ enquired Bill.
‘I don’t know,’ Darkus replied frankly. ‘But King’s out for blood and we’ve only got two days until the next full moon.’
Brendan Doyle watched Darkus and the police officers return to their cars empty-handed. The rest of the hoodies disbanded and walked into the darkness or re-entered the building. The motorcade of cars exited the estate and the streets cleared out. Brendan found himself all alone as he walked across the recreation area to his waiting motor scooter. He picked up the black carbon helmet with the devil’s horns on either side of the visor, fished for his keys and turned the ignition.
He climbed aboard and gunned the engine, which sputtered and whined. He folded the kickstand and pushed away, cruising around the playground and towards the exit.
Then he applied the brakes, finding that a metal gate had been lowered to block his path. He shrugged, turned the wheel and motored across to the other side, then came to a halt, finding the same thing.
‘What the – ?’
He turned the wheel and did a U-turn to find the two hoodies from Victoria Station standing before him, flanked by the two Rottweilers.
‘You called the 5-0,’ the first hoodie said.
‘What?! Who?’ Doyle asked, genuinely confused.
The dogs’ eyes shone and glittered in the night.
‘The police, the Special Branch,’ the second hoodie said. ‘You called ’em.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Doyle shouted.
‘Then someone used your phone.’
‘That’
s impossi–’ He pulled out his phone to check his recent calls, then saw an unfamiliar number and did a double take. ‘There must be a mistake.’
‘We don’t allow mistakes.’
The hoodies whistled and the Rottweilers took off across the tarmac.
Doyle cranked the throttle and sped across the recreation area, bouncing up and down on the seat, nearly losing control of the back wheel. The scooter weaved and wobbled away from the running dogs.
The Rottweilers caught up with unnatural speed, snapping at the rear licence plate and pulling it off. Doyle cranked the throttle again, doing a wheelie as he crossed on to a pedestrian walkway, which was his only means of escape. Doyle grinned, getting the upper hand as the dogs’ speed was impeded by the incline.
Doyle half flew over the brow of the walkway and on to the flat part leading to the main road. All that stood in his way now was a set of metal barriers to prevent vehicles such as his using the pedestrian path. Doyle realised, even with his skill, he would not be able to guide the scooter through this tight set of railings. He turned back to see the dogs gallop over the crest of the hill, leaving a fine spray of spit and steam in their wake. Doyle revved up, wheelied on to the narrow parapet that ran above the path and accelerated along it, bypassing the barriers. His wheels were only just slim enough to stay on solid ground. Like a fairground performer he kept his balance as the scooter traversed the low wall and bounced back on to the path with a crunch, arriving at the main road.
He raised his fist in triumph. ‘Sick!!!’
Then the scooter lurched and decelerated with a clattering sound as the exhaust pipe dropped off and trailed along the road. The engine spluttered and complained, losing speed.
‘No – !’ The exhaust drowned him out.
