High Moor (28 page)

John felt a wave of relief sweep over him. This was not how he'd expected the conversation to go. “So, you said that you’d taken some time off work. What do you do?”

“Nothing too interesting. I’m in recruitment. You meet some interesting people once in a while, but usually it’s the same old, same old. I enjoy it though, so it’s OK. Oh great, here’s the food. About bloody time.”

The waiter arrived with a tray of steaming food in stainless steel bowls and placed them on the table. The aromas blended into a rich tapestry of scents that made John’s stomach grumble in anticipation. He piled his plate high and took a large mouthful of the chicken madras.

“Mmm, this is really good. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.”

Sweat beaded on John’s forehead, and he reached for a glass of water.

Marie sniggered. “Everything alright, John?”

“Yeah, great. It’s just…” He took another mouthful of water and then another mouthful of the curry. “…a bit hotter than I expected it to be.”

“If you’re going to experience a good curry for the first time, there’s no point in starting off with the wimpy stuff. Might as well have a baptism by fire.”

John wiped the sweat from his brow again and took his jacket off. “So you started me off with the hottest one?”

Marie grinned and shook her head. “No, that would have been cruel. What you’ve got there is a six, maybe a six and a half. We’ll have to work you up to the really hot ones.”

“I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t give me a ten. I think my mouth’s melting as it is.”

“You’ll be fine. By the time you finish you won’t even notice the heat.”

“Yeah, because it’ll have burned all of the nerve endings out of my mouth.”

“You think it’s bad now, just wait till tomorrow.”

“Why? What happens tomorrow?”

Marie put on an innocent expression. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

The rest of the evening flashed past. They talked about things that John had half forgotten. Old memories that filled him with warmth and a faint sense of nostalgia, tinged with regret. Marie talked about her job and some of the places that she’d been. John responded with amusing stories about his customers. All too soon the restaurant staff turned the lights down and stood around the bar with impatient expressions.

John nodded towards the waiters. “I think they’re trying to tell us something. Not sure what, though.”

Marie laughed. “Yeah, their problem is that they’re being too subtle instead of just telling us to fuck off so they can go home.”

“I suppose it is quite late. I’ve really enjoyed tonight, Marie. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

Marie reached across the table and took his hand. “Well, you know, we might not be so young anymore, but the night still is. I’ve got a bottle of wine back at the flat I’m renting. You could come back and we could carry on talking…or something.”

John felt panic surge in his stomach. He snatched his hand back and got to his feet. “Erm, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got an early start in the morning. I’ll give you a call later.” He put on his jacket and walked to the door, then paused and turned back to face her. “I really will call, Marie. I had a great time tonight, and it’s been amazing to see you again. I’ll talk to you soon.” Then he turned and walked out into the night.

***

Marie slapped herself on the head with the palm of her hand. “Way to go, Marie. Real subtle. Nice one.” She upended the wine bottle and drained the last dregs into her glass, then downed it in a single gulp. She put her head in her hands and exhaled a long, slow breath, then looked at the empty doorway. “Bollocks.”

***

1st November 2008. High Moor Town Centre. 01.25.

From a van parked across the street, Steven watched John leave the restaurant. John appeared to be flustered. His body temperature was elevated by several degrees, according to Steven’s infrared goggles, and he appeared to be cursing as he strode down the street towards the taxi rank. He stopped after a few yards and looked back, uncertain of himself. Then he punched a wooden billboard with a force that made Steven wince and joined the back of the taxi queue. The readings on John’s body temperature returned to normal, helped by the cold night air. Steven relaxed and removed the goggles, then ejected the silver bullet from the high-powered rifle at his side.

Things had been on the verge of going bad earlier. John’s altercation with the local meatheads had driven him to the very edge of changing. His body temperature soared, and Steven had been seconds away from putting a heavy calibre round into his skull when the woman intervened.

The woman. Who the hell was she? John clearly knew her, but as far as Steven was aware, he’d been isolated from the rest of the world since he was a child. He thought back, trying to focus his mind through the haze of his pain medication. There had been a girl, once. Of course. He couldn't believe he’d forgotten. The Williams girl. The one that had lived next door to him. The one whose brothers had died. If John suspected that Michael was still alive, it made sense that he’d contact the sister. Satisfied that the evening’s loose ends made sense, Steven stowed his equipment and drove out of town towards his home.

After fifteen minutes, he turned off the main road and drove through a maze of narrow lanes until he came to a pair of imposing metal gates, flanked by ten-foot-high granite pillars and high stone walls. Steven pushed a button on his key-fob. The gates slid open to allow the van access and then closed when the vehicle had passed. Floodlights clicked on across the front of the property as the infrared sensors registered the car. He pulled up to the front of the house, a former Georgian farm constructed of red brick with steel bars across all of the windows, removed the holdall that contained his weapons from the passenger seat, and walked up the steps to the front door. He punched a code into the silver numeric keypad and stepped inside.

A high-pitched electronic whine, just above the human auditory range, made his fillings vibrate. He walked to a control panel on the wall, disabled the ultrasonic siren and the sprinkler system that would have dumped five-hundred litres of silver nitrate over every inch of the house in another ten seconds, then checked the alert logs on the motion-sensitive cameras. When he was satisfied that nothing bigger than a badger had breached the property's perimeter in his absence, he hung up his coat and walked into his sitting room with a 9mm pistol in his hand. He poured himself a brandy and went to a large corkboard that he’d installed on the rear wall.

Post-it notes and photographs covered the board. Long-range pictures of John. Satellite photographs of the area with a red pin in the centre of Coronation Park where the attack had occurred. Coloured yarn stretched between the pictures on drawing pins. Steven picked up the yellow pad of paper and a marker pen, then wrote Marie Williams on it. He stuck the paper onto the board with pins and linked her name with John’s photograph with a length of green wool.

He looked at the board and shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know what to make of it all. You’d probably put it together in a second, you cantankerous old bastard.”

He walked across to a bookcase and took down a photo album. He opened it and looked at a faded Polaroid picture of Carl Schneider. “All these bloody years and you can’t let me retire in peace. Yeah, I took the money you left me, and I agreed to the conditions in the will, but for fuck’s sake, Carl, I’m an old man now. I’m dying.

“I’ve hunted the things wherever I found them, like you wanted. I should have called it quits after '94 when the bastards were showing up everywhere, but I didn’t. All I wanted to do was come home to die in peace, and you bring it right to my bloody doorstep.”

He tossed the photo album into the fireplace and watched as the glowing embers melted the plastic, and flames danced around the book. Carl Schneider's photograph turned up at the edges and browned as the flames grew higher. He downed the brandy in a single gulp, enjoying the warmth as it spread through him.

“Fuck you, Carl,” he said, then turned and walked out of the room while the photographs burned.

13th November 2008. Coronation Estate, High Moor. 14.25
.

Simon Dobbs hurried through the rows of terraced houses towards Malcolm’s home. He reached the low metal gate and paused to catch his breath before he walked up the concrete path and pushed the doorbell.

He heard a woman’s voice inside, shouting at the children. Simon couldn’t make out the exact words, but he didn’t need to. The acidic tone left anyone listening under no illusions as to the intent of the speaker. He remembered his father referring to that particular sound as “The Mother’s voice” and that it would strike fear into the heart of any man. This was, of course, before the old man was electrocuted trying to steal live copper wire from an electrical substation. Simon was about to push the bell again, but then thought better of it and waited until the shouting subsided before he pressed the plastic button. A shadow darkened the frosted glass in the front door, and he could hear thunderous steps approaching. Then the door opened. Karen Harrison stood in the open doorway, her hands on her hips and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

Karen had been a beauty once, when she was a teenager. A dark-haired bad girl who could drink most men under the table and was brought home by the police most Saturday nights. Time, alcohol, and the stress of raising three children had robbed her of her looks by the age of thirty. Her dark hair had turned grey, and the constant application of dye had given it the texture of straw.

The hour-glass figure she'd maintained into her early twenties had slowly morphed into the shape of a pear, her skin was prematurely aged from twenty years of weekly sun-bed sessions, and dark rings circled her eyes. The faint purpling of an old bruise was just visible on her jaw line, despite the layers of foundation applied over it.

“What the hell do you want, Simon?”

“Is Mal here? I need to talk to him.”

Karen snorted. “You’ll not get any sense out of him. He’s laid up in bed, sick. Bloody man flu if you ask me.”

“It’s important. Can I go up?”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t blame me if you come down with it as well.”

A crash came from the kitchen. Karen turned and stormed away from the front door to investigate the noise, leaving it open behind her. Simon stepped inside and closed the door, then went upstairs as quietly as he could so not to incur Karen’s wrath.

He knocked on the bedroom door and waited. When there was no reply, he opened the door a crack and eased his way inside.

“Mal? You alright, mate?”

Malcolm lay in the bed, covered in sweat. The duvet was drenched and thrown to the side. “Course I’m not alright. I’m fucking dying here. Told that bitch to call an ambulance, but do you know what she said?”

Simon shrugged. “No idea?”

“She said it was nothing but a cold from one of the kids and told me to take two bloody aspirins.”

“Well, I’ve got some news that might make you feel a bit better. We found him.”

“Found who?”

“John sodding Simpson. Who do you think? Billy’s brother-in-law works at the builders' merchants, and he said that he’d been in and out of there for the last few weeks. His address was on the invoices.”

Malcolm managed a smile. “Nice one. Any sign of the bitch?”

“Na, no idea where she’s at. We’ll have to make do with putting him in hospital for now.”

“Well, as soon as I get over this flu, we’ll go over there and have a nice little chat with our friend John. That’ll give me something to look forward to.”

“I don’t know if we can wait that long. Lawrence was out there earlier and he saw him putting suitcases in his car. It looks like he’s packing up and leaving. We’re gonna go over there tonight, just after it gets dark.”

“Not without me, you’re not. Hold on and I’ll get ready.” Malcolm tried to stand up, but collapsed back onto the bed. He reached for the bucket by his side, and added to its already considerable contents.

“Mal, you’re in no fit state to be anywhere but bed. We’ll sort it out. Me, Lawrence, and Billy all owe that bastard at least one broken bone each. I’ll record it on my phone and send the video over to you. Might make you feel a bit better.”

“Simon, I’m telling you. Don’t do this without me. Just hang on a couple more days.”

“Sorry, mate, but we can’t risk him fucking off to God-knows-where again. This might be the only chance we get. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. You just concentrate on getting better,” he said, then turned and left the room without another word.

***

Malcolm lay on his bed for a while and scratched at the infected scab on his knuckles. “Bastards. The lot of them are a bunch of bastards. Just wait till I’m better. I’ll sort them all out. I’ll…” Then the nausea bubbled up from inside again, and he returned his attention to the bucket at his bedside.

***

13th November 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 15.02
.

Steven checked his harness and hoisted himself off the ground, up to the platform that nestled in the bare arms of an oak tree. The tree trunk was over eight feet across and had fabric strips wrapped around its entire surface. Rows of silver-tipped spikes protruded from the material. Steven remembered his first ever encounter with a werewolf, less than a hundred yards from the tree that he ascended. He did not want a repeat of that experience.