You Will Grow Into Them

by Malcolm Devlin

  Gil extended a hand.

  'Gil McKenzie,' he said.

  Her smile widened as she took his hand and shook it. 'Of course, I have read your CV,' she said. She picked up her glass and chased the straw around the rim.

  'Yes,' he said. 'About that.'

  Her smile shrank a little. 'Yeah,' she said. 'Sorry.' She studied him for a moment, then set her drink back down on the table. 'Listen, I shouldn't be telling you any of this. It's very unprofessional. But we didn't turn you down for the job because you were LPS. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?'

  'Why then?'

  She shrugged. 'You haven't worked in the industry for over five years. Your projects and references were out of date. In comparison with the other candidates, you just seemed… a bit out of touch.'

  'Not my fault.'

  'I'm not saying it's easy,' she said. 'But there are ways you could've kept on top of things. Programmes, college and so on.'

  'Bullshit.'

  'Okay,' she said. 'I'll drop it. But just so it's out there.'

  They fell to silence for a moment and the argument at the pool table, violence brewing, filled the gap.

  Vicki said, 'Do you smoke?'

  'Sure.'

  Her eyes flicked across to the pool table. 'I could use some air,' she said.

  'Let's get some more drinks in first.'

  There was that smile again.

  'Deal,' she said.

  *

  The smoking area around the back of the building: an abstract negative space between the pub and the student flats behind.

  'Stars,' Vicki said, lighting up. 'Pink stars. Very classy.' She handed the lighter back to Gil.

  The benches outside were already full of people, so they found a small corner in range of one of the patio heaters, where a wooden shelf had been bolted to the wall.

  'When are you expecting your friend?' Gil said.

  Vicki shrugged.

  'Whenever,' she said. 'Listen, I realise this must look terrible, but meeting you here is a complete coincidence. I mean, obviously I figured you might be here, what with being LPS and the anniversary and everything, and yeah, it could have been awkward, but… just coincidence, that's all.'

  'So you don't use your knowledge of people's CVs to flirt with them at pubs?'

  'God, no!' she said. 'Wouldn't that be awful? No, I'm normal. Totally non-stalker.'

  'And you hang out in were-bars because…?'

  'I don't as a rule.'

  Gil was surprised to realise he was enjoying himself. They talked on, and easily; the crowds sifted and the empty glasses stacked up between them. The drink loosened him, and he found himself talking more freely about his current job, about Grisham's suggestion he work with Hamley, about his time at Muirhouse. They talked about the event too. It was in the air that night, and there was little sense avoiding it. They talked about Chrissy Linderman's appeal and how they both hoped she wouldn't get off. Gil told Vicki about the YouTube clip he'd seen where someone had taken the footage from the mall and added HUD graphics and sound effects, so it looked like a first-person shooter. They were both appropriately appalled, both secretly amused.

  'If you don't mind me asking,' Vicki said after a while, 'is your dad LPS? I read somewhere that there's sometimes a genetic link on the father's side.'

  'I heard that had been disproved,' Gil said. 'But yeah, he was.'

  She caught the tone in his answer. 'Was?' she said.

  'He was driving across town when he lost consciousness. The van veered through a wall and ended up in the canal. He drowned, but they found his clothes had been all torn up, so they figure he changed first.'

  'Oh, shit, I'm so sorry,' Vicki said.

  'I'm not,' Gil said.

  He pictured the van sinking in a way it could never have done. He imagined the letters peeling off the side one by one. The face inside too busy becoming something new to appreciate it was dying.

  'Fuck, I don't know,' Gil said. 'That's not true. I am sorry. But… I didn't really know him that well. I used to work with him over the holidays sometimes. Weekends, you know. He was just some guy who came round once in a while. But there's a reason mum left him… There's a reason… she finds it hard to look at me. Now I've grown to look more like him.'

  Uncomfortable, he backtracked. 'But it happened to a lot of people. That plane, for instance.'

  'Terrible,' Vicki agreed.

  Many had died during the event, the change taking them at inopportune times when they were balanced at the top of staircases, on the edges of train platforms, while crossing the road, driving cars and buses. In China, a pilot had changed mid-flight, slumping over the yoke and driving the plane down into the sea. It was a late night red-eye flight and barely half full, but there had been no survivors.

  Vicki set her drink down on the still.

  'So I'm going to tell you a story,' she said. 'And you're not going to interrupt. Deal?'

  'Deal,' Gil said.

  'Good. So I was in Australia. I had a work-holiday visa there, got it just in time; the deadline was thirty and I got there just before my thirtieth birthday.'

  'I thought you were younger,' Gil said.

  'Smooth, but you said you weren't going to interrupt.'

  'Sorry.'

  'So I was in Melbourne. And I was working, mostly doing shit jobs. It's what people do when they're on work-holiday visas. No one goes there for a proper job. I'd done fruit picking, I'd done bar work and at this time I was working as a waitress in a pizza restaurant out on Brunswick Street. And it was all right, you know? The crowd were good fun and I was sharing a house with someone else who was working there and when we had time off, we'd go out together. Go to the beach. It was okay.

  'I was seeing someone. Sort of. He was called Lance and he was an idiot, basically. Rugby player build, crew cut, stubble. Wanted to be an actor but refused to play gay, even though he'd tell me he “dressed gay” to pull women. True story. Used to walk around in a singlet all the time to show off the work he'd done on his muscles.'

  She laughed.

  'The point is, Lance was a dick. A dick with a stupidly high opinion of himself. And so when I say I was seeing him, I mean we would sometimes fuck and that's about it. He wasn't exactly sensitive, but – I don't know – sometimes you just settle for someone who knows what they're doing down there, you know? He was the sort of prick who figured out how to give a woman an orgasm, because it made him feel good. It was an ego thing.'

  She touched Gil's arm.

  'Am I making you uncomfortable?'

  'Not at all, just trying to figure out where this is going.'

  'I'm getting there. So one night I was back in the flat. I was alone and it was late, like three in the morning, and I'd had a hell of shift. Jesus.

  'And then Lance comes along, banging on the door. He's so drunk he can barely stand. God knows how he got himself up the stairs. And I let him in, which I know was stupid, but there you go.

  'And he's being all amorous, drunk-amorous. I Love You, I Can't Live Without You. Someone else has clearly told him to fuck off that night so his G-spot-PS has directed him to the nearest soft-touch.'

  She pointed to herself with both thumbs.

  'So I know it's all bullshit, and I'm just not in the mood. And I tell him he should just go home, sleep it off. But he won't budge. Tonight, he's decided to come as the full asshole.

  'And he sort of herds me towards my room. Because he's a big guy, you know. Those muscles aren't all show. He's strong. And mostly I just can't be bothered dealing with this right now. The more he tells me he wants me, the less I want him to touch me.

  'No, I tell him. Go away. Come back when you're sober.

  'No, he goes, we should totally screw each other right now, right here. It would be so fucking hot. Only a drunk guy thinks that screwing a drunk guy might be hot. And by that point, he's cornered me by the bed. And I'm scared of him. I've never been scared of him before, but now? He's become more than a prick, he's
become a prick with a purpose. And he stinks of alcohol and he's huge, red faced… he's terrifying.

  'And my phone is somewhere else so I can't call anyone. I'm looking for something to hit him with but I've got nothing, just last night's underwear and some dumbfuck soft toys. Hit him with any of those and he'd mistake it for foreplay. So I draw myself up like this and I point to him like this. And I go: “Lance Parkinson, you're a monster. Swear to god, if you don't leave right now, everyone else will see it the way I do.”

  'And he grins, all drunk and lopsided like he's had a stroke. And he lurches forward anyway to try his luck. He gets one step closer and then… just like that, his eyes roll up into the back of his head like cherries in a fruit machine and he collapses on the bed.

  'And then, he turns into a monster.'

  Gil blinked.

  'Five years ago,' Vicki said. 'Almost to the day.'

  'Shit,' Gil said.

  'Yes, that's pretty much what I said.' Her laugh sounded forced. 'Because of course you can imagine what I must have thought. There I was, staring at my hand like I just zapped him with something. Hell of a way to find out you're a witch, right? But first things first. I'm scared he's going to wake up, because now he looks really scary, you know what I mean? So I'm out of the room, and I barricade the door with the sofa.

  'But that doesn't feel like it's enough. So I'm out of the flat and I'm running down the street. I don't know what to do. I don't know if I even believe it. Do I go to the police? Do I call an ambulance? What was I supposed to say? “Hello, I've just turned my boyfriend into a monster… I don't know what sort… Teeth, claws, tail? Can anyone help?”

  'There was a laundrette down the road. An all-night laundrette-internet-café place. I'd sometimes go there after work if I was still buzzing. Go for a chat. Read a book. So I head there now, and there's a crowd on the street outside, staring in the big window at the front. And I join them and try and see what they're looking at.'

  'Another werewolf.'

  'Right. This hairy lump pitched forward with his head in one of the washing machines, halfway through emptying it. It would have been funny if it wasn't so… And then there are sirens, raised voices. Screams. And we can see the TVs on the wall on the back of the laundrette and the breaking news… And that was when I started to get an idea of how big it was. This was everywhere.

  'And I still thought it was all my fault. This was all me? What if I was defending myself and I just overshot and… this happens. And there I was, staring at my hands, trying to imagine all the power that must have been backed up inside of me. All this time, something world-changing, just waiting for a release.'

  'And was it?'

  She laughed again, then raised her arm and pointed.

  'Gil McKenzie, you are an animal. A monster.' She smiled, but again, there was a sadness there. 'No, see. Nothing. Coincidence. Nothing more. But for a few days I wasn't sure. I skipped work and I walked around the town terrified of what I'd do next, as though I might make a careless gesture and burn down a city block. Because it's frightening, isn't it? That sense that you're not quite in control of who you are. That sense that you might snap your fingers and people will get hurt.'

  Across the courtyard, a blonde girl was dancing for the benefit of a thickset man with a shaved head and bulging eyes. The girl was much younger than he was, she wore a Teen Wolf T-shirt tied up under her midriff. The man at the bench was staring up at her, his expression somewhere between awe and horror.

  'Do you know what really freaks me out about the whole thing?' Vicki said. 'If I'd had a better day that day, and Lance had turned up as he did, I might have gone “Sod it”, and fucked him anyway. Can you imagine that? All those were-groupies desperate to screw an animal and I was this close to living their dream.'

  She grinned at Gil.

  'People are weird,' she said and downed the remains of her glass. 'Time?'

  'Ten-past-twelve. Bar's still open. My round?'

  'You're already drunk.'

  'You're not drunk enough.'

  She snorted.

  'Go on then. One more, then we should pour you into a cab.'

  'I'll walk. Can't afford a cab.'

  'My treat. Get some crisps.'

  *

  There was a difference, he realised as he made his way to the bar, between being sober, but feeling a little bit drunk, and being drunk but feeling a little bit sober. Everything felt muffled to him, but there was a fraction of awareness which cut through his clouded senses like an open window on a winter's day.

  He ordered two more drinks, another beer for him, another rum and Coke for Vicki and he could feel Warren studying him, trying to gauge his state.

  'Near time for you to pay that tab, don't you think?' he said.

  'Sure,' Gil said. 'Why not?'

  The pub had emptied out a little, but there were new faces too, refugees from other venues which hadn't had their licences extended for the evening.

  Somewhere behind him, a low voice pronounced his name, but it didn't feel as though it was for his benefit.

  Ollie was there, standing in the middle of the room. He was dressed up for the night. Polished shoes, popped collar, bloodshot eyes. He'd clearly had a long night himself, and simply by looking at him, Gil felt more sober by comparison. He felt anger stir up as well, as though the drink had chipped something loose. At first, Gil assumed Ollie was alone, then he saw the shape of Troy near the door, Benny too. They were watching Ollie from a safe distance. They were on enemy turf and neither looked comfortable to be here.

  'Look at this,' Ollie said. 'The working man.'

  He reached out a hand and plucked at Gil's paint-spattered sweatshirt. 'Doesn't even bother getting dressed up for the evening, because this is you dressed up isn't it? You're the sort of stiff who puts on a tie when he wants to relax. And here you are, come to a bar, pretending to be someone who works for a living. Maybe pull a bit of skirt. Some idiot's idea of a bit of rough. “Look at my hands, ma! I got callouses on my hands!” Wanker.

  'You know what you are? You're a fucking tourist. We all seen you going off in your suit to go to interviews every other week.' His voice switched to a public school falsetto: '“I'm too good for this place, I'm going to get me an office job like I deserve.”'

  Baleful, his expression was. It was serrated with resentment, glinting in the dull light of the bar.

  He jabbed Gil's chest with his finger. Gil held the glasses steady, but took an involuntary step backwards. He felt as though the room was growing close and dark, as though Ollie had stolen the only light. He felt the flicker of fury brewing, and under his breath, he began to count its distance.

  One. Two. Three.

  'And you see all these other people in this room,' Ollie said, 'these fine, upstanding people? Tomorrow, they'll all turn into wolves. Sure. But wolves are fucking cool man. Not you. You're a dingo. A fucking dingo. You're going to spend the rest of your life licking your balls and humping the furniture.'

  Gil breathed. Four. Five. Six. He breathed heavy and something caught making his breath sound like a low warning growl.

  'And that's you,' Ollie was saying. 'Mummy and daddy must be so proud. Sweeping up after scum like me. All that money they spent on you and you're a fucking cleaner. You're literally picking up bitches in bars. You're a fucking dog.'

  The last words were near-as spat, but Ollie didn't wait for a response. The triumphant look on his face was not for Gil but for the friends he turned back to, his arms raising, ready to accept their applause.

  Gil saw storm clouds and they were beautiful.

  'Fine.' He wasn't sure if he said it out loud but when he dropped the two glasses, they landed like punctuation.

  He didn't drop them, he cast them down, so they shattered on the painted floor, their liquid contents achieving an impressive radius, which almost cleared the room; people leaped away from the beer and the glass, clearing an impromptu arena around him, a gap opened between him and Ollie, who turned in drunke
n surprise to stare at him with rheumy eyes.

  Whatever the boy saw in Gil, it frightened him. All that confidence and bravado was flayed clean away with a quick stroke. Ollie looked scared and to Gil, the fear was narcotic.

  Gil felt the eyes of the crowd turn first to him and then to Ollie and it was as though at that moment, everyone could see the boy as he did. They saw him as something small, insignificant, reeking with fear.

  Gil could feel their hunger. They saw only the meat of him.

  Gil saw the pub as a room full of hard sharp things, and Ollie was something soft and out of place. He felt a tide of something broiling inside of him, something that wanted to break that vegetable softness down and correct it, make it mineral.

  He stepped forward, quick and deliberate and Ollie shrank back. Troy and Benny had fled, leaving him isolated and Gil saw him struggle in his pocket, bringing out something that glinted in the dull light. The knife looked smaller now; there was something toy-like and preposterous about it. Ollie wielded it too slow, straight armed, without confidence and Gil easily knocked it spinning across the floor.

  It was almost disappointing. Gil could see how it would go from here and it was far too easy, almost unearned. He felt sorry for the boy; he felt sad for him. This was no way to be bested.

  Ollie lurched to move, but again he was clumsy and again Gil was faster, he caught him with a hand on his neck, forcing him backwards against the wall. He balled up his other hand into a fist. With one punch, he knew he could drive straight through Ollie's face, through blood, through bone, all the way through the wall behind. He could feel that strength inside of him, he knew how to use it.

  Ollie whimpered. He was just a kid after all.

  Gil felt her looking at him. Even in the midst of such a personal storm, which had emptied his world of every other sound, every other sense, every other living thing, he felt her cutting through like a vivid splinter of blue sky, a trace of sun on the back of his neck, a flicker of heat that threatened to burn. He relaxed the hand on Ollie's throat and turned back to see Vicki spotlit in the crowd he'd forgotten was there. She was standing at the back of the room, her back against the wall. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking down to the side as though there was something of interest on the floor. But he was sure she'd been watching. He was certain he'd felt the weight of her look, the darkness of her reproof. He watched her avoid his eyes and slip away again, out of sight.