Ahead, no more than twelve paces away, he could see the turnstile of the ticket barrier which led out on to the Southbound platform. A faint gleam of starlight was shining through from the platform itself, and this, together with the light from his torch, illuminated a shimmering swathe of unbroken cobweb stretching across the narrow gap. Jackson realized immediately that the killer couldn’t have come this way. If he had, then the curtain of cobweb would have been hanging in shreds. So what did that mean? Either the killer was leading him on a wild goose chase or he had reached the station by following the line of the old track, much of which was now overgrown. Or – third possibility – he was lying in wait for Jackson between here and the turnstile, or was even now creeping up behind him, having watched him enter the station from some unseen vantage-point.
Though these thoughts hardly reassured him, it felt almost comforting to be thinking like a policeman again. As he spun round to check behind him, he thought that perhaps it was about time he acted like one too and announced his presence, rather than creeping about like a victim in a cheap horror movie.
“This is Detective Sergeant Jackson, Moorfield Police,” he called, his voice booming around him. “I’m here as arranged. Please show yourself.”
There was no reply, only the fading echoes of his voice which sounded reassuringly authoritative. After a moment he tried again.
“If you don’t show yourself, I’ll be forced to radio for reinforcements. It’s entirely your choice.”
Ten long seconds passed, and Jackson was beginning to wonder whether this would prove to be a dead end, after all, when a black shape appeared beyond the ticket barrier, blotting out the starlight.
Jackson swallowed. He suddenly seemed aware of the hot, juicy rhythm of his blood pulsing round his body. He shone his torch at the figure, but it flinched back as if afraid of the light.
“Stay where I can see you,” Jackson called.
The figure spoke. Its hoarse whisper seemed contained within the mist that curled from its mouth. “Turn . . . off . . . the torch.”
Jackson hesitated, then did as requested. He gave himself a moment to re-adjust to the darkness, then moved towards the turnstile beyond which the black bulk of the figure was waiting, like an unwanted visitor just alighted from a train.
“Move back,” he ordered as he reached the turnstile and put out a hand to claw some of the cobwebs aside. The figure complied, shuffling back towards the edge of the platform.
Jackson pushed at the turnstile. It was stiff from years of disuse, and squealed as if in pain as he struggled with it. It gave inch by inch and at last he was through and standing on the platform, grimy shreds of cobweb clinging to his expensive overcoat. The figure was maybe twelve yards away, facing him, poised at the edge of the platform beside the overgrown track like a high diver about to attempt a back flip. The figure’s face was indistinct with shadow, masked by a constant swirl of white breath. For a moment Jackson and the figure stood facing each other like gunslingers.
At last Jackson said, “Well, I’m here. What now?”
A shudder seemed to pass through the figure as if it was drawing itself together. It was breathing stertorously, almost panting. “We don’t . . . have much . . . time,” it rasped.
“Are you ill?” asked Jackson.
The figure made a wheezing, gulping sound that could have been anything from amusement to an articulation of pain. “I’m . . .” It seemed to grope for a suitable phrase. “. . . changing,” it said at last.
Without knowing why, Jackson thought of a caterpillar pupating into a butterfly. He shuddered. “Changing into what?”
The figure groaned. “Rebirth . . . Renewal . . . Regeneration . . .”
The three R’s, Jackson thought crazily, and stammered, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Listen to me . . . so little time . . . I’m not like you . . . I’m not . . . human.”
“Of course you’re not,” said Jackson soothingly.
“Listen to me!” The response was momentarily energized by fury before the voice dwindled to a croak once again. “Forty-year cycle . . . then renewal . . . preceded by instinct to feed . . . to take blood . . . life energies . . . identities . . . Can’t control change . . . Too much killing . . . But no more . . . no more . . .” The figure groaned, made a gulping sound, then sagged as though about to faint.
“Look,” said Jackson, “you’re hurt or ill. Come with me. I’ll get you to a hospital.”
“No,” the figure croaked, “no hospital.” It seemed to make a supreme effort and straightened up. Its voice was little more than a hoarse whisper now. “I don’t want . . . to go on,” it said. “Don’t you understand, Jackson? I have so . . . little time. I want you to help me . . . help me stop it all . . . happening again.”
Jackson had come here prepared to listen to what the man had to say, but all he was hearing was gibberish. He wondered whether the man really was as crazy and as hurt as he appeared or whether it was a ploy to catch him off guard. It was not uncommon of killers to pretend to be weaker than they actually were or incapacitated in some way. Latching on to the last thing the man had said, he asked, “How can I help you to stop it?”
The asthmatic wheeze of the man’s breath certainly sounded genuine. “I want you . . . to kill me. Can’t do it . . . myself. He won’t let me. Too much . . . control now. Almost through. Quickly! . . .”
“Kill you!” Jackson exclaimed, and then forced his voice back to calmness. “You know I can’t do that. It’s against the law. But look, if you come with me, I can get you help. You can talk to people about your problem. Professional people. They’ll help you.”
The figure gave a gurgling roar of frustration. “No, Jackson . . . listen to me . . . I’m not human . . . If you don’t . . . kill me, the cycle will . . . complete itself . . . Mind will . . . repair damaged thoughts . . . renew . . . survival instinct . . . and then I won’t . . . want to die. And in forty . . . years the . . . killings will . . . start again . . . You must . . . do it now . . . Jackson . . . while I’m . . . willing . . . Petrol . . . under bench . . . matches . . . do it now . . . soon . . . too late . . .”
The croak became a slur and the figure collapsed. Jackson took two instinctive steps forward, then stopped. The figure was lying motionless on the edge of the platform, but how could Jackson be sure that he wasn’t being duped? He imagined himself bending over the figure, the man’s eyes snapping open, his hand – clutching whatever hideous weapon he used to kill his victims with – whipping round to take off his face. He closed his eyes briefly and shuddered, then switched on the torch which he still held in his hand and directed it at the prone figure.
The man was lying on his back, his head and his left arm hanging over the edge of the platform. If he had really fainted, then it was lucky he hadn’t fallen off the platform on to the tracks. Or maybe it wasn’t so lucky; at least if he’d fallen down there, Jackson would have had a territorial advantage over him. He remembered what the man had said about petrol and turned to shine his torch at the nearest dilapidated bench.
He was frankly surprised to see that there was indeed a petrol can beneath it, a slim yellow box of safety matches propped up by its side. But was this evidence that the man really wanted to die as he’d claimed or was he just being thorough? Were the petrol can and matches simply designed to persuade Jackson to lower his guard still further?
He paused for a moment, thoughts racing through his mind. Why had the killer requested this meeting with him specifically? If the killer had wanted simply to kill him, then surely there were better ways of going about it. But why should the killer want to kill him? Because he was working on the case? Because he feared that Jackson was coming close to catching him? Could there be any truth in the killer’s claim that he wanted to die at Jackson’s hand? The young D.S. found that hard to accept. If the killer was so desperate to die, why didn’t he just kill himself? Jackson tried to recall what the man had said – something about he wouldn
’t let him because he had too much control. What did that mean? Who could the killer be talking about? A brother, a father, a lover, an accomplice? Or perhaps it was simply another facet of the man’s personality, the part of him that made him kill.
Jackson realized he was venturing into tinpot psychology country here, but maybe the man was schizophrenic and maybe the passive, guilt-ridden side of him was dominant at the moment and wanted to end it all before the violent side reasserted itself. Perhaps he had called Jackson because he had seen him on the news and identified him as a potential ally against the dark side of himself, or as an authority figure, someone on who he could rely, on to whom he could shift his responsibility.
But what about all the other stuff about not being human and about having to kill in forty-year cycles to renew himself? That, surely, was just an example of the man’s craziness. Jackson knew it was not uncommon for killers, particularly multiple killers, to consider themselves more than human. Sometimes the act of murder was seen by the killer as a step towards their transformation into something divine, God-like.
Sensing a vague flicker of movement to his right, Jackson turned his head. Far away, approaching silently along the track, he saw a number of dark bobbing shapes, hunched over in an attempt to blend with the darkness. He looked left, and saw more hunched shapes approaching from the other side. At once relief washed over him. They were here, and sooner than he’d imagined they would be. Constable Banks had done his job well.
He waved, but got no response. They were still too far away. It would take them five or ten minutes to reach the station. Nevertheless there wasn’t much that could go wrong now. He imagined the headlines tomorrow: KILLER CAUGHT BY BRAVE SERGEANT.
Just then the figure groaned, began to move its limbs feebly, to raise its head. At once Jackson reached into his jacket and took out the handgun Banks had suggested he bring with him. It was a long time since Jackson had carried a gun, and at first he had been reluctant. But the Constable had insisted, despite his inferior rank, that if Jackson was going to rush in without immediate back-up to avoid the killer getting suspicious and fleeing the scene, then he had to have some form of protection. Hence the gun and body armour which Jackson had hastily strapped to himself before rushing out to his car. Jackson’s aim had been to play for time, and hopefully to win the killer’s confidence, to get as much out of him as he could before reinforcements arrived. All he’d been offered, however, was nonsense, the rantings of a fractured mind. He only hoped that once the killer realized the game was up, that he had no more room to manoeuvre, he would provide Jackson with rather saner responses to his questions back at the station.
Jackson held the gun in his right hand and the torch in his left, both of which he pointed at the killer. “Don’t move!” he ordered. “I’ve got a gun pointing at you and reinforcements on the way. I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Sylvia Hughes, Louise Castle, Amanda Barrie, Melanie Whitman and Sarah-Jane Springer. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
The man, as though still too dazed to hear, raised his head and squinted directly into the beam of Jackson’s torch, allowing the Detective Sergeant, for the first time, to see his face.
It was the face of a man in his late teens or early twenties, and seeing it had a strange effect on Jackson. For a second or two he experienced an acute sense of dislocation, almost of shock. He felt certain he had never seen this man before, and yet at the same time he looked strikingly familiar.
The man smiled, shook his head and spoke, and this time there was no trace of tiredness or suffering or desperation in his voice at all. He spoke in a clear, strong voice, his tone almost conversational.
“You lied to me, Christopher,” he said. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? You’ve always been a model policeman, always played everything strictly by the book.”
This time it was shock that jolted through Jackson. Suddenly everything seemed to fall sickeningly into place. But it was impossible. Impossible.
“Farrow?” he said wonderingly.
The man who looked and sounded like a younger, more vibrant version of the bedraggled Chief Inspector laughed.
“Starting to get it now, are you, Christopher?” he said mildly.
Jackson’s arms were shaking, the gun jittering in his right hand, the torch beam wavering over Farrow’s impossibly young face. His voice was a dry croak. “Get what?” he said stupidly.
The approaching marksmen were still too far away to be of any use as the rejuvenated Farrow said, “Watch.”
Lit by the unflinching glare of white light from Jackson’s torch, the man’s face began to change. The features flowed like oil, altered before Jackson’s disbelieving gaze, and then altered again, and again. It took Jackson a moment to identify what he was seeing, and then all at once, with awful clarity, it struck him: it was a shifting montage of the faces of the Wolfman’s murder victims. Here was Louise Castle, here Melanie Whitman, here Sarah-Jane Springer.
The torch slipped from Jackson’s nerveless fingers and smashed on the floor, mercifully plunging the killer’s writhing features into darkness. Jackson staggered back two paces, gripped his gun in both hands to avoid dropping that too and levelled it at the killer. His voice was shrill with terror, the words accompanied by ragged gouts of vapour. “What the fucking hell are you?” he screeched.
Farrow’s voice was almost sympathetic. “I did tell you I wasn’t human, didn’t I, Christopher? Actually, the name that the newspapers came up with for me was uncannily accurate when you think about it, though to be honest I’m not one of a species as such. If anything, I suppose you’d say I’m a sort of . . . sophisticated chameleon, able to blend into my surroundings, integrate myself into any situation.”
“Where are you from?” Jackson demanded.
Farrow pursed his lips, shrugged. “I’m not from anywhere. I’ve always been here, on this planet I mean. I’ve lived here longer than mankind, longer than I can even remember. I move around a lot. I take whatever shape seems appropriate at the time.”
“Why are you here?” Jackson said, the words catching in his dry throat.
“Because I like it,” replied Farrow simply. “I like human beings, I like being one, thinking like one, living amongst them. There’s no great purpose to my existence, Christopher. I’m just surviving, like you. Like everyone.”
“Not like those girls you killed.”
“Ah, no. Look, I’m sorry about that, really I am. Would it help if I told you the killings were instinctive, that I don’t actually have much control over what I do? No, I don’t really suppose it would, and I can’t blame you for thinking badly of me. What can I say? Every so often it happens. I need to kill to renew myself. Sorry.” Farrow’s shoulders rose in a sheepish shrug; it was like the gesture a schoolboy might make who’d been caught putting frogs in his teacher’s desk. Jackson saw Farrow’s head turning left and right, imagined him looking along the track. “Your reinforcements are getting awfully close,” the shape-shifter said. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome here. It’s time. I was moving on.”
He sat up. Jackson snarled, “Stay where you are, you bastard! You’re not going anywhere!”
Mildly Farrow said, “Look, let’s call it quits, eh, Christopher? I became a policeman as a sort of trade-in for what I knew was coming later. Over the years I’ve stopped lots of other people getting hurt, getting killed. I think I’ve payed my dues.”
“Don’t fucking move!” Jackson repeated, his voice hoarse, fierce, verging on panic. “If you do, I swear I’ll blast your fucking head off!”
“Clint Eastwood. Am I right?” said Farrow mildly. He stood up.
“I said don’t move!”
“Goodbye, Christopher,” said Farrow, and took a step forward.
Jackson pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. When the din and the smog of his breath had cleared, he saw Farrow still standing there, apparently unharm
ed.
“Don’t you know it takes silver bullets to kill a Wolfman?” Farrow said apologetically.
“I hit you,” said Jackson in a high, wavery, almost petulant voice. “I know I hit you.”
“You did,” said Farrow, “but I’m afraid it would take a massive disruption of my cells to destroy me, hence the petrol and matches earlier. I self-heal from localized wounds almost instantaneously.”
“But you wanted to die,” Jackson said, his gun arm drooping. He sounded like a little boy who’d been denied the chance to play the goodie.
“That was before. A period of confusion, of weakness caused by the change. That’s all forgotten now.”
Because of the gunshots, Jackson’s reinforcements were now racing down the track towards them, their leaders barking orders. The group on the right were no more than thirty yards away.
Farrow gave them a quick, though casual, glance. “Time to go,” he said. “Goodbye, Christopher. Have a nice life.”
Before Jackson’s astonished eyes, Farrow’s body ran like oil once again. It seemed to hunch and darken, clothes splitting beneath broadening shoulders and bulging legs, falling away like the pieces of a discarded chrysalis. Just for an instant Jackson glimpsed what must have been the creature that had torn the girls apart. He saw muscles rippling beneath a shaggy pelt, teeth and eyes flashing like knives. Then Farrow’s body seemed to compress, to rush towards a dark point in its centre. Suddenly, instead of a man or a beast there was a dark bird, a crow perhaps, which rose flapping into the sky and was quickly swallowed by the night.
The first of the police marksmen climbed up on to the platform and ran towards Jackson, assault rifle held diagonally across his body, barrel pointing upwards.
His head whipping this way and that, he shouted, “Where is he? Sergeant Jackson? Where’s our man?”
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 18
