by J M Hemmings
‘I was, I was watchin’ a movie,’ he admitted with a quivering lower lip, as tears started to rim his eyes.
‘Oh, you were watching a movie, were you? Where were you watching this movie, Sam? In your cinema … or Susanna’s?’
The boy began to sniffle, and now he could not meet the old man’s eyes.
‘S-, S-, Susanna’s,’ he stammered, doing his best to stifle the sobs that were rising up the inside of his throat.
The old man’s tone took on a stern cast, but he made sure the boy knew that he was feeling far more sympathetic than judgmental.
‘Now Sam, we’ve told you you’re not supposed to go into Susanna’s personal cinema. Them films she likes, well they ain’t suitable for someone as young as yourself. She’s seventeen years old, see? And now it seems that you’ve gone and watched one of those silly horror films of hers, and it’s gotten under your skin now, hasn’t it? Go on, it’s all right. We all make mistakes sometimes. Tell me what you watched.’
Tears had started their passage earthward, tracing the smooth, soft ridges of the boy’s cheeks.
‘It was … it was called … The Wolfman.’
Something flickered across the old man’s face; the boy caught it, and the sight of it kicked off a hammering beat in his little heart – but as quickly as it had appeared it vanished, concealed behind a mask of paternalistic sympathy.
‘That’s the one about a werewolf, isn’t it?’ the old man asked.
‘Yes sir,’ the boy answered, his eyes still wet with tears. ‘A big scary werewolf who can tear people in half an’ rip their heads off. Are … are there any werewolves in the woods here?’
The old man chuckled, a little too forcefully.
‘Of course not!’ he scoffed. ‘There’s a lot you’ll learn as you get older, young Sam, but you have nothing to fear from werewolves here. Nothing at all! Why, you know you can kill a werewolf with a silver bullet, right?’
The boy bit his lower lip and nodded.
‘Well look what grandpappy always carries around with him.’
The old man lifted up the left front side of his white suit coat, revealing a chrome-plated .357 revolver sitting snug in an antique leather holster.
‘What’s this now, Sam?’ he asked, tapping the firearm with his forefinger.
‘A gun.’
‘Is it like your little .22 rifle?’
‘No sir.’
‘How’s it different, then?’
‘It’s … silver?’
The old man tousled the boy’s blonde locks.
‘Yessirree. This revolver right here will stop any ol’ werewolf dead in his tracks! So you see, my boy, you don’t have to be scared of anyone … or anything … out here. I’d die before letting anyone harm a single hair on this sweet lil’ head of yours. Why, I’d kill every living thing on this earth if it meant saving you from harm. That’s how important your life is to me. Do you understand?’
The boy nodded, sniffling. He was about to wipe away the mucus hanging from his left nostril with the back of his hand, but his grandfather held up a single, stern finger, which he wagged in the boy’s face.
‘Now now, young Mr Deveraux, what have we taught you about manners? Is that how a boy of good Southern breeding cleans his nose?’
The boy shook his head, biting his lower lip as he did, and reached into the side pocket of his dungarees, retrieving a handkerchief with slow reluctance.
‘That’s it,’ the old man said, his light grey eyes beaming with pride. ‘That’s how a young boy becomes a young gentleman. Come now then, let’s enjoy the rest of this evening stroll. Don’t think any more of those silly werewolf stories, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go rifling through your sister’s movie collection for scary things to watch!’
He took the boy’s hand in his, giving it a stiff and reassuring squeeze, relaxing his grip as the boy threaded his tiny fingers through his own sausage-thick digits. The pair of them continued walking hand in hand for a few more minutes, wallowing in the warm silence of the materialising evening. The consecrated quietude of the moment, however, was interrupted by the buzzing of the man’s phone. Annoyed by this unwanted intrusion, he grumbled under his breath and fumbled in his trouser pockets to retrieve the demanding device.
‘Nathan Deveraux,’ he muttered, his tone curt and impatient. He had not checked the number in his haste to answer the call.
‘I’ve acquired the painting, sir,’ a calm male voice on the other end of the line announced, flavoured with a cultured and slightly effete Londoner’s accent.
Mr Deveraux’s expression changed instantly. He slipped his hand out of his grandson’s and curled his fingers into a fist, the contracting force of his muscles and tendons squeezing triumph through every vein and corpuscle.
‘Yes,’ he growled through teeth that were forcefully gritted with vengeful excitement. ‘Yes goddamn it, yes.’
‘How should I proceed, sir?’
‘Nobody knows about this except you and me, correct?’
‘Correct sir.’
‘You make fu—’ He paused before cursing so vehemently in front of his grandson and resumed conversing with a milder rephrasing of his sentiment. ‘You make sure that it stays that way, got it? Nobody can know. Not a single soul.’
‘You’ve been very clear on that point from the beginning, sir. I understand completely.’
‘Take hi-res shots of it right now and send them to me. I need to see it. After that, torch it.’
‘Torch it sir? I’m not sure I understand your meaning.’
‘Burn the damn painting! Don’t leave a single trace of its existence. Take it out to a field somewhere, douse it in gasoline and burn the damn thing to ashes. Am I making myself clear? And after you’ve sent the files to me, wipe them from your camera and your hard drive. Make sure you use our most secure server too. And you, you damn well forget you’ve ever seen this image. You burn it right outta your mind too.’
‘Sir, I, er, it’s a Peter Paul Rubens masterpiece that’s been missing for centuries. You’ve had me working on this case for three years now, and now that all this sleuthing work has finally paid off and I’ve found it … are you really sure you want me to … destroy it?’
‘Yes, damn it!’ he hissed, acidic venom adding barbs to his words. ‘Once you’ve sent me the hi-res picture, destroy. The. Painting! Do not let one single shred of canvas remain. Do you hear me, goddamn it?! Burn it to ashes. And now that I know you’re feeling sentimental about it, I want you to video the process of burning it, and send that to me so that I know you haven’t tried to fu—, er, to screw me over! I want proof that you’ve destroyed it, solid incontrovertible proof y’hear! I’ll expect the hi-res file now, and the video of the burning in no less than an hour. Got it?’
‘I, but sir, it’s a, it’s a priceless—’
‘I said, “got it”? So help me God, you’d better answer “yes sir” in the next two seconds, or I’ll have your ugly head in a garbage bag and the rest of you as pig feed, and you know that ain’t no idle threat.’
‘Er, yes sir. Consider it done, sir.’
‘Good. Now quit yackin’ on this line and get on with it.’
He hung up the call and slid his phone back into his trouser pocket. Glancing down, he saw his grandson staring up at him with wide, confused eyes, liquid in the late afternoon light with the too-white sheen of anxiousness, so he squatted down – wincing as pain shot through his injured leg – and ruffled the boy’s hair.
‘Don’t worry none about what grandpa was just saying, see? I know I sounded angry, but I’m not angry about you, not at all. That was just grandpa’s business, grandpa’s work, y’hear? And sometimes the people that work for grandpa don’t do things exactly the way that I tell ‘em to. And you know how I feel when people don’t do things the way I tell ‘em to, right young Sam?’
The young boy nodded, his bow-lips parted slightly and glistening with drool; he’d been sucking on his thumb again while his gran
dfather had been talking on the phone. The old man noticed this, and a sliver of anger shot its solder iron-hot blitz through him, like an unexpected splinter jabbing sharp pain under a fingernail. He forced himself to swallow this, however, and he instead the calm, reassuring smile he wore on his countenance stayed in place.
‘Well like I said, you don’t have to worry none about that. You’re a good, good boy, Sam. You always do what I tell you, so you don’t need to worry none about me getting angry with you like that.’
Samuel didn’t seem quite convinced by this.
‘Your voice is scary when you’re angry, grandpa,’ he murmured, eyes big as plates.
The old man chuckled, consciously trying to make it as warm and inoffensive a sound as he could.
‘It has to be, young Sam! Otherwise folks wouldn’t take what I say seriously. That’s something you’ll understand when you’re older. You need to be strong in this world, my boy, very strong. You can’t be weak, and you can’t be seen as weak, even if deep down inside you are weak. Do you understand?’
Sam shook his head slowly, his mouth hanging half open with confusion.
‘It’s like this, Sam,’ the old man explained with grandfatherly patience. ‘You’re a boy now, but you’re growing up, you’re growing up oh so fast! And you’ll be a man soon enough, but not just any man. No, a man carrying a name – the Deveraux name – which is a very, very well-respected name in these parts. And do you know why us Deveraux men have been respected for countless generations? Because we’re strong. We’re powerful. And even if we do have weaknesses inside us – like all people do Sam, everyone has their own weaknesses – we never, ever, ever show anyone these weaknesses. We only let ‘em see our strengths. That’s the only thing outsiders ever see of a Deveraux man: strength. Power. That’s why we have Mr Chen staying here on the estate, teaching you every day how to fight, with all his fancy kung-fu moves and all that. That’s not just for fun and games, young Sam! It’s to make you strong. And that’s why I take you out hunting with me too. A Deveraux man has to learn from an early age how to fight, how to shoot, how to kill. How to be the master of his environment, so that he may in turn be master of his fellow men – because you, Sam, you were born to lead, not to follow. And to lead you need strength, real strength, like I told you. Now you do like your combat classes, don’t you? I know Mr Chen is tough on you sometimes, but he’s fair, ain’t he?’
Sam nodded, biting his lip and shifting his little foot in circular patterns in the dirt.
‘Yes. I watch you, I watch you all the time my boy. You’ve got a strong right hand, you really do. You can hit that bag like a pro. And if I don’t say so myself, you’re such a damn fine shot with your rifle, too! You enjoy going out to the woods and taking squirrels and birds, don’t you?’
Sam nodded again.
‘Well when you’re a bit stronger, we’ll put something a bit more powerful in your hands and we’ll make sure you get to take your first deer soon. Your first whitetail, imagine that!’
Sam smiled bashfully.
‘Would you like to shoot a deer?’
This question was answered with an eager nod.
‘Oh, it’s much more of a thrill than shooting lil’ varmints like squirrels, I can tell ya that. And then in a few years, if you’re real, real hardworking and diligent, grandpa’ll take you on a hunting safari to Africa. How would you like to take down an elephant, as big as a house?’
The boy’s eyes widened, and a smile of excited delight brightened his features.
‘I seen an elephant grandpa, I seen one!’
The old man smiled.
‘In the zoo, I know. But it’s something different when you’re out in the bush in Africa, something very, very different. And you’ll be able to take so much game there! Lions, rhinos, hippos, giraffes, leopards, zebras, African buffalo, why, all kinds! But only if you’re a good boy, and only if you always do exactly what you’re told. Y’hear me?’
Sam nodded, smiling with bright keenness now, his eyes alive with anticipated excitement. Mr Deveraux tousled the lad’s hair again.
‘Good. Come on, let’s head in. I just caught a whiff of one of grandma’s turkey roasts on the breeze. Can you smell it?’
Sam raised his nose to the wind and sniffed dramatically. Then he grinned with triumph, his eyes aglow in the dark as if he’d just solved a confounding riddle.
‘I can smell it grandpa!’
Mr Deveraux chuckled and rose up from his squatting position, grunting as the old pain flared up.
‘Well then, in we go. But remember, no gravy for you unless you say grace perfectly tonight. You been practicing?’
‘Uh-huh! I been practicing!’
‘That’s what I like to hear now. Let’s go then.’
While the rest of the family began to gather around the dinner table, Mr Deveraux hurried off to his private office, located in a tower at the very top of the mansion. Once inside, he logged into his email, and there, waiting for him, was the hi-res picture of the portrait he had spent years hunting high and low for. He could not contain his excitement as he opened the file. If this truly was a picture of the person, or, rather, the beastwalker he suspected it was, and it matched the recent spy satellite photo taken in the middle of the Congo rainforest of an as-yet unidentified beastwalker … well, it would be an absolute game-changer. Nothing less.
The instant he saw the painting, he realised that he didn’t even have to check whether the features of the face were the same as those in the grainy, heavily pixelated spy cam photo; the face was a match; of this he was utterly certain. He was seized by uncontrollable tremors, and his extremities started to tingle and feel numb. This, this was it: the biggest discovery of his entire career. The chess pieces had been set in place, the manoeuvre meticulously planned – and now it was time to move them.
‘Checkmate,’ he whispered, hissing the words with naked aggression through tightly clenched teeth. ‘Checkmate Ma, you senile old fuck. I’ll be head, I’ll be the motherfuckin’ CEO of the motherfuckin’ Huntsmen! Check-fuckin’-mate! Fuck you, Ma! Fuck you, fuckity fuckity fuck you! Hahaha!’
He jumped up and slammed his fist onto the desk, breathing hard as an almost orgasmic lust of violent triumph fired the geriatric blood that oozed through his veins with new youth.
‘All right, all right, all right,’ he whispered to himself, trying to force himself to calm down. ‘We have to play this cool. First, I need to make this agent “disappear”, because only I can know about this. He knows, so he’s a liability, and I don’t work with liabilities. And I need to get word to Hutton.’
He used his fingerprint to unlock a safe in the wall, and from it he retrieved a satellite phone, on which there was only one number: the number of another satellite phone, this one located all the way on the other side of the world, in the heart of the Congo. He pressed ‘dial’ with trembling fingers, and waited for Hutton to answer the call, which she did within seconds.
‘Mr Deveraux, sir.’
The voice – a reedy, harsh female voice with a New York accent – was crackly, but clear enough for conversation.
‘I have the painting,’ Deveraux rasped, ‘and I’m sending an image to you right now. We have confirmation. I repeat, we have confirmation.’
Her voice dropped in register, her excitement almost tangible across the chasm of time and distance between them.
‘My God. Oh my God, sir…’
‘Fuckin’ right. We need an army out there, poste-fuckin’ haste. I’ll start making arrangements.’
‘I’m on the ground sir, ready to do whatever is necessary. I repeat, whatever is necessary, sir.’
‘I know you are, yes I know you are. It’s time. Oh fuckin’ yeah, it’s finally fuckin’ time…’
PART TWO
9
WILLIAM
March 1837. London, England
Dense, milky morning fog was doing its utmost to suffocate the cobbled streets of Whitechapel, and the weak s
un hovered a mere inch or two above the horizon; one more gas lamp that burned on from the dead night, unextinguished. All around, the sounds of the waking city rattled, hummed and clanged in a tempestuous symphony; here sounded the crashing clatter of horse-drawn cabs and mounted riders, there the hoarse cries of vendors plying their wares, and in the background, the aggressive curses and slurred shouts of stumbling drunks, still intoxicated from last night’s excesses. Slicing across the foreground was a pack of feral mutts, barking frenetically as they chased after a terrified cat.
The feline careened through an alley between two police constables and a dumpy prostitute, who halted their conversation as the animal sprinted by. As they resumed talking, a beam of weak sunlight broke through the fog and struck the ramshackle dwelling next to them, a squat crammed between the hundreds of other makeshift shacks jumbled tight in these narrow, filth-encrusted alleys.
‘So you’re sure she ‘asn’t come out o’ there for five days then, love?’ asked a burly, hirsute constable, who sported a dense walrus moustache.
‘I’d swear it on a bible if you ‘ad one I could put me ‘and on,’ the woman answered. She looked to be hardly out of her teenage years, yet seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders; her wan complexion, missing teeth and the dark rings beneath her eyes would have been more suited to a woman three times her age.
‘I bet you’d also swear that you’ve never ‘elped no blokes to put their Nebuchadnezzars out to grass, not so love?’
The prostitute glared at the smirking policeman and his chuckling companion.
‘Well if that’s your bleedin’ attitude, no wonder ‘alf o’ London can’t stop goin’ on about ‘ow bloody useless you lot are! Look, I’m trying to ‘elp my friend, and she’s not been out of ‘er room for the last ‘free days, an’ the last I saw of ‘er she was lookin’ awfully poorly. Judy’s got a wee chavy in there too, an’ I’m right worried about ‘im, I am.’
The constable turned reluctantly to his companion, scowling and rolling his eye.
