High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  The same thought that had been gnawing on her nerves all day resurfaced. Why was she going back at all? This close to the tunnel, everything became much more real and immediate. Connie realised that she’d never really stopped to consider the consequences of following Michael’s order. If she survived the journey through the tunnel, the other team would escort her back to Moscow. That sounded a hell of a lot like being under arrest. That prick, Michael, would have her put on trial for following orders that he fucking gave her, and then lock her away in some cage, or even have her put to death. Given his insistence that she run through twenty five miles of railway tunnel, avoiding fucking trains and high voltage lines, it seemed pretty obvious that Michael didn’t feel that her life was a priority. And if she were dead, then she’d never have her revenge on Wilkinson. Michael obviously wasn’t interested or he’d have sent another team over to deal with him. Hell, he was a werewolf now. Michael might even invite the bastard to join the pack.

  Her lips curled into a snarl, and she felt the first surges of the change begin in her fingers and toes. With effort, she brought herself back under control and considered her options. There was a good chance that she was already marked for death. She might not even make it back to Moscow, especially if the extraction team turned out to be a hit squad. If that was the case, then Michael’s threats no longer held any meaning. If she was going to die, then she’d make damn sure that she was covered in Steven Wilkinson’s blood when it happened.

  The weight of her decision pressed down on her. If she did this, then there was no going back to the pack. They’d hunt her with the same tenacity and determination as a moonstruck − perhaps more. She’d be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, and she’d be leaving behind the closest thing to a family that she had left. Her heart ached at the thought, but that pain was a tiny thing compared to her thirst for revenge.

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Fuck it. If he’s going to make me a rogue, then ah’ll show the bastard what a rogue werewolf is really capable of. Ah’ll show all of those fuckers.”

  Connie took one last look at the chain fences and the CCTV cameras, then snarled her defiance. Getting back into her car, she drove out of the industrial estate onto the slip road for the motorway and headed north.

  ***

  14th December 2008. Phil’s House, Gilesgate, Durham. 01.15.

  Phil poured himself another whiskey and stared at the wall. Sharon had long since left him to his thoughts, having gone to bed a couple of hours earlier. He’d tried to distract himself by watching television, but he’d been unable to concentrate on any of the programmes. Sharon had tried putting music on and getting him to talk about what had happened, but the emotions were too raw for him to express. He’d spent most of the evening in silence, speaking only to thank his wife when she made him a cup of tea, or put a plate of food in front of him, even though he’d only eaten a few mouthfuls.

  He’d been sent home from work by Franks as soon as the sanctimonious prick had heard the news. The chief inspector had been uncharacteristically sympathetic, and had insisted that he, along with Rick’s team, take a few days off so that they could come to terms with Olivia’s death. The man was a fucking idiot, as far as Phil was concerned. There was only one way that he was going to come to terms with Olivia’s murder, and that was by getting hold of the bastard who killed her. At work, he would have been able to focus his pain, do something useful with it. Instead, Franks had condemned him to spending the next few days wandering his home like a ghost, agonising over whether he could have done something differently. Whether he could have saved Olivia’s life if he’d made a different decision.

  His glass was empty again. He hadn’t even realised that he’d taken a drink. He picked up the bottle of Jameson’s and tipped it up over the empty glass. Only a few drops of liquid dribbled from the empty bottle.

  “Bollocks.”

  He lifted himself from the chair, almost falling back before he steadied himself on the coffee table. He knew that he should really go to bed, but he also knew that he would just lie there, awake, listening to the staccato grunts from his wife until the sun came up. What he needed tonight was oblivion. He remembered a bottle of cheap, supermarket own−brand scotch that Sharon’s sister had bought him for Christmas two years ago. He’d banished the bottle to the back of the sideboard and had forgotten all about it until now.

  “Fuck it, it’s not like I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  He stumbled out of the living room and into the kitchen, and then staggered uncertainly into the dining room. He didn’t bother turning on the light, instead circumnavigating the dining room chairs until he reached his goal. Steadying himself against the mahogany unit, he reached for the cupboard door, missing at his first attempt. At that moment he heard the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer being cocked somewhere behind him, and his blood turned to ice.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m just here to talk. Can we talk, Phil?”

  “Please, don’t hurt my wife. I couldn’t…”

  “Relax. Like I said, I’m just here to talk. Now, I’m going to get you to turn around. Do it slowly, then sit down in the chair behind you.”

  Phil turned to face the intruder, but his face was lost in the shadows and Phil didn’t recognise the man’s voice. What was recognisable, however, was the 9mm pistol pointed at him. He put up his hands and eased himself into the chair, making sure his hands were visible at all times.

  The man nodded at this and took the seat opposite him. As his face drew closer, the shadows receded, bringing his face into focus. Phil felt that he knew this man, that he’d seen him somewhere before. Then it hit him. The man sitting before him was Steven Wilkinson.

  Steven smiled. “I see that I don’t need to bother with introductions.”

  “What the fuck? How the…”

  “How is a comatose man with a severed spinal cord able to break into your home and hold you at gunpoint? Come on, Phil. Based on everything that’s happened, everything that you’ve seen, is it really that hard to make the connection?”

  “You’re telling me that you’re a werewolf.”

  Steven leaned forward in his seat. “You’ve seen the films. You know the myth. Anyone who survives an attack by a werewolf is cursed to become one on the next full moon. What do you think bit through my spine? A fucking poodle?”

  Phil wished that he had another drink. The sudden surge of adrenaline had left him depressingly sober. “OK, let’s say for a second that I believe any of this. What the hell are you doing in my house at one o’clock in the morning?”

  Steven sat back. “The reason I’m here, Phil, is because you have no fucking clue as to how much shit you’re currently in, and there’s still enough copper left in me to want to give you a fighting chance. So, here’s the summary. John Simpson is a werewolf. He’s been one since he was a child, after the attack in ‘86. He came back to High Moor and managed to infect a local meat−head called Malcolm Harrison. We both went after him when he turned. I got almost bitten in half, and your men arrested Simpson after he’d killed Harrison. You with me so far?”

  “I heard more or less the same shite story from Simpson, although he didn’t mention your involvement.”

  Steven reached into his pocket and produced a small flask. “Pass me those glasses behind you, Phil. You’re going to want a drink for the next part.”

  Phil, mindful of the pistol still trained on him, reached over and put two tumblers on the table. Steven poured a liberal amount of the liquor into each, putting the flask back in his pocket afterwards. He pushed a glass over to Phil. “Redbreast Irish single malt. Makes that Jameson’s you’ve been drinking seem like paint stripper.”

  Phil reached over and took a sip from the amber liquid, savouring the smooth warmth of the spirit. Steven certainly wasn’t lying about the whiskey. “OK, so, why don’t you enlighten me as to the rest of it. Then, I’m going to have to arrest you for possessing an illegal firearm.”<
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  Steven laughed at this. “The problem you have, Phil, is that not all werewolves are poor fuckers that howl at the moon once a month, like Simpson. There are others that can change whenever they like and seem to retain their intelligence when they do it. They call themselves The Pack, and they’ll do anything to keep the existence of their kind a secret. Anything at all.”

  “And this has what to do with me what, exactly?”

  “It wasn’t John Simpson that killed your DC this morning. And werewolf or not, John Simpson sure as fuck didn’t crash that prison van on his own. There are at least two pack teams operating around here. They are hunting Simpson, but they are also hunting you and me. That’s what happened to your friend this morning, and if you don’t start accepting what’s going on, then you and your wife are going to end up the same.”

  “What the hell do you mean, hunting us?”

  “You’re obviously getting too close for them. I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot to take in, but you have to realise the danger that you’re in. These pack teams are trained killers. Assassins. They turn up every time something like this runs the risk of going public, and they erase any and all evidence. Kill anyone who knows, or even suspects what’s going on. And then the fuckers vanish. That’s what’s coming for you.”

  Phil took another swig of his whiskey, very aware of his heart pounding in his chest. It was ludicrous, but it all made a sort of sense. He’d spent weeks trying to fit the puzzle pieces together around the basic premise that John Simpson’s story had been a load of bollocks. Unfortunately, everything that Steven had said rang true. Hell, even his presence here backed him up. He’d been crippled. People didn’t just get up and walk away after that. Severed spinal cords didn’t heal. He sighed. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do? Get hold of some silver bullets?”

  Steven smiled. “It wouldn’t hurt. You should have most of my ammunition locked up in evidence. If I were you, I’d send the wife as far away as you can, first thing in the morning. Then I’d borrow a nine millimetre from your friends in armed response and fucking pray.”

  “So, that’s it? That’s all you came here to say to me? Steal some ammunition and a weapon, send my wife away and then shoot anything hairy that comes through the door?”

  Steven took out his flask and topped up Phil’s glass. “There might be something I can do to help you, but I’m going to need some things from you in return.”

  Phil sighed. There was always something. “And what, exactly, would those things be?”

  “I’m going to help you with your little pack problem, but I need you to help me put a mistake right. You have to understand that I’ve hunted werewolves for decades, ever since that mess in 1986. I’ve tracked them down and killed them wherever I found them. Men, women, hell, even a child once. If it sprouted hair and fangs on a full moon, I put a silver bullet between the fucking thing’s eyes. Every time except one.”

  “You mean John Simpson?”

  Steven nodded, and suddenly looked his age. “Yes. The thing is, I saved John Simpson, when he was a boy. Me and an old Yank called Carl Schneider. Then, when the pack came to clear up the mess, we fought them again. For the boy. Carl died fighting to save that child. So, when he turned up again in High Moor, what I should have done was blow his head off. I didn’t, and everything that’s happened since is a direct result of that decision. I need to put things right.”

  “So, you want me to pass on any information we get about Simpson? In return for what?”

  Steven smiled and raised his glass. “I’ll help you find and kill those pack fuckers that murdered your friend.”

  Phil considered this for a moment, then clinked his glass against Steven’s. “Then we’ve got a deal.”

  ***

  14th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 10.55.

  Marie sipped her coffee, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. She’d spent half the night throwing up in the bathroom and, even after taking a handful of painkillers, she still felt like crawling under a rock and dying. She’d never experienced a hangover before. Her heightened metabolism had made getting properly drunk an effort, and by the time she awoke the next morning, she’d always felt fine. That, apparently, was no longer the case. Her tolerance for alcohol seemed to have diminished along with her immunity to the after−effects. She wouldn’t have minded, but she’d only drunk one bottle of red wine. It hardly seemed excessive, especially considering the consequences this morning.

  She rubbed her hand through her hair, conscious of the fact that it looked as if she’d spent the night sleeping in a hedge. Her fingers caught in the tangles, and when she pulled her hand away, it smelled of stale vomit. “Oh fucking marvellous. In my hair? Really?”

  She took another sip of coffee, wincing as the hot liquid aggravated her already upset stomach. She had to have a shower and sort herself out, preferably before John came downstairs and saw her in this state. Not that he’d give a shit, based on his actions last night. She couldn’t understand it. She’d turned her back on everyone and everything that she loved. She’d risked her life and shot two people she cared about with an assault rifle, all to save his miserable life. Yet he’d been distant since she let him out of the boot. There was a palatable, uncomfortable tension between them, and for the life of her, she couldn’t work out why. Was it something she said? Something she did? Or was the problem something deeper, more fundamental than that? John acted as if he simply didn’t like being around her.

  Things certainly hadn’t gone the way she expected, although, if she was honest, her little romantic fantasy about the two of them against the world seemed childish in the cold light of day. Even so, after everything that they’d been through together, and given everything that they would face in the coming weeks and months, was it unreasonable for her to expect something? For them to be friends at least, if not lovers?

  Her stomach burbled again and she forced herself to stand up, steadying herself against the table as the room spun. She needed a long, hot shower and something to eat. Then, perhaps she’d feel less shitty. She fortified herself and began the slow, painful journey upstairs to the bathroom.

  ***

  She emerged from the bathroom almost forty minutes later. The blistering streams of water had left her skin pink, nevertheless she felt like they’d washed away the worst of her hangover. She was still tired, her head still throbbed and her stomach continued to do somersaults every once in a while, but she felt better than she had an hour ago. The smell of frying bacon wafted up from the kitchen, and her stomach gurgled, although she couldn’t tell if it was in anticipation, or the start of another wave of nausea. She figured that she’d find out soon enough and made her way downstairs.

  John looked up and smiled as she entered the room. “Morning. I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten or not, so I made you some bacon and eggs anyway. Sorry about last night. I know that you wanted to talk, but I was hanging on by a thread. If I’d sat down with you, I’d have fallen asleep in the chair inside of ten minutes.”

  She gave him a weak smile, before shuffling over to the kitchen table and flopping down in a chair. “That’s okay, I understand that you were tired. Feeling better today?”

  John put a plate of food in front of her, then putting his own plate on the table and sitting down. “Yeah, lots. I think I must have slept for twelve hours straight, but it did the job. I feel like I could run a marathon today.”

  She picked at her food, without much enthusiasm. “I’m glad at least one of us is feeling alright. Christ almighty, why do people drink when you feel like this the next day.”

  John arched an eyebrow. “You have a hangover? Bloody hell, Marie, how much did you have to drink?”

  She held up a finger. “One bottle of wine. I am officially a lightweight.”

  John looked confused. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t your…you know, take care of that?”

  Marie’s stomach flip−flopped again, but this time it had nothing to do with her alcohol consumption
. She’d not quite told John everything yesterday, and she’d wanted to keep this from him for as long as possible. “Well, normally it would. Unfortunately, whatever your fucking bastard friend did to me killed my wolf.” She realised how bitter that sounded once the words left her mouth, but found that she didn’t care. John, on the other hand, looked shocked. Again.

  “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that you’re human? That you’re cured?”

  Marie’s hangover must have been worse than she realised because it was affecting her aim. Instead of hitting John straight between his eyes, her coffee cup sailed harmlessly over his shoulder and shattered against the pine cladding on the far wall. “Cured? I’m not cured. That fucker killed part of me. He crippled me in the worst possible way, and you have the fucking nerve to say that he cured me?”

  John raised his hands. “Whoa, hang on a minute. I’m just saying that if it worked for you, then it might work for me. I could be free of this. I could be normal.”

  She snarled. “Well, I hate to break it to you, John, but your fucking friends’ cure involved cutting me in half with a fucking machine gun filled with silver bullets. If I hadn’t spent years developing an immunity to silver, then I’d have died. I should’ve died, but I think my wolf sacrificed herself to save me. She burned herself out to heal my wounds, and you have the nerve to talk about her like she was some kind of disease? How fucking dare you!”

  John’s face paled. “Hang on a second, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, John. That’s exactly what you meant. You don’t appreciate the fucking gift that you’ve been given, when I’d do anything to get it back. All you do is mope around, feeling sorry for yourself, while everyone around you has to pick up the pieces.”

  A spark of anger flashed in John’s eyes. “Well, I was doing fine until your little plan to lure me out of hiding backfired. I had a house that I loved, a good job, and no−one fucking died because they knew me.”