by Heide Goody
Angry and afraid. That was how she wanted the rest of the world to be.
She wondered what kind of a person Col would turn out to be. What could she surmise? Mr Argyll’s organisation had clawed its way to the top by being utterly ruthless. That wasn’t in doubt. Was it likely they had absorbed former paramilitaries, possibly from both sides, who found themselves at a loose end after the peace accord? It was extremely likely. She had spoken to Mr Argyll when he first called upon her services. She was English and, for various reasons, Mr Argyll did not want to use Irish men and women for all of his dirty work. There was some benefit in using killers with a different background and skillset to those former bombers and assassins left over from the Troubles.
Mr Argyll had founded his empire on brutality, extortion and death, moving steadily and surely towards respectability and legitimacy. In their phone conversation, he had made it clear ninety five percent of his business was honest and above board, and she should disregard anything she’d heard about his past. Obviously, she belonged in the other five percent, along with Col. In Col, she was about to meet someone cut from similar cloth to herself; the thought was simultaneously interesting and annoying. Well, one thing was for certain: Col would probably have two functioning arms instead of a stick blender. She whizzed the motor a couple of times and pressed on across the river to where the chopper had landed.
54
In the darkness, Nick took his father’s hand.
“You know,” he said softly, “I said you always struck me as infallible. That’s not precisely true. There was that time with the vase. Do you remember? Possibly one of my favourite days with you ever. You remember?”
Nick felt the slightest tremor in his dad’s hand so he pressed on.
“How old was I at the time? Eight? Nine? I’m not sure. It was just the two of us in the house, all day for some reason, and we had fishcakes for lunch. No, that’s not the good part, but we definitely had fishcakes. You weren’t a good cook. Mom always said you could burn water. Bit of an unreconstructed male in that regard. That’s not the fallible bit either. The thing was, I broke mom’s vase. Her favourite one with the swirly glass. You know the one. I think she bought it when were on holiday on the Isle of Wight.”
Tony blood-slicked fingers twitched against Nick’s hand.
“I know you think I kicked a football at it. I had just joined the mini-league club on Saturday mornings. I hated it but you seemed keen on me doing it so I went anyway. You’d bought me a new football and assumed I’d kicked it in the living room, but I hadn’t. I broke it while I was trying to see if I could draw around the top to make an interesting shape. It was when I had my Spirograph. It broke. You came running.
“Maybe you were in the kitchen, scraping burnt fish cakes off the oven tray. I don’t know. But the look of panic in your eyes. I don’t think I’d ever seen that before. I was terrified. I thought you were going to be so angry, but you were just worried about what mom would say and you snapped into Action Dad mode.
“Anyway, you said we could go out and find a replacement for the vase, so she wouldn’t get mad. Do you remember? It was brilliant. We went to fifteen different shops. We were like detectives, following any lead. We found one which was the right shape but the wrong colour, and then a lady in a shop tried to sell us one which was completely different but she kept insisting it was the same. We ended up going in a place you called a flea pit: one of those antique shops with the scruffy bit out the back, with boxes of junk. You were really panicking by this point. I don’t know if you were scared of what mom would say or just didn’t want to see her unhappy.
“There were loads of vases and knick-knacks in the back. I think by that point you were suffering with vase-blindness, couldn’t tell one from the other. I found one that was exactly the same! We were so excited the man charged us two pounds for it, even though it was in a fifty pence box, and we didn’t care! You said he charged us more because my poker face needed some work and the man knew we really wanted it.
“We rushed home and we swept up all the little bits of glass. All the chunky shards. We put the replacement vase on the window sill and you looked at me like I’d just saved the house from burning down or something, when it was really my fault in the first place.”
Nick paused, completely lost in the memory. He became aware Tony was squeezing his hand, very gently. “You do remember,” he said.
Tony unhooked his fingers and moved his hand, trying to reach for something. A few moments later, he pulled the tobacco tin from a pocket with his fingertips. The moment the box was free, his hand fell away, as if the effort had exhausted him.
“You need something?” said Nick.
This was bad. It spoke of something very final. Reluctantly, Nick thumbed the lid off. He angled it towards the window, to pick up the moonlight from outside.
“Oh. Oh wow.”
Nick lifted the shard of glass from its bed of cotton wool. The tin held nothing else but a thick triangular piece of glass from a broken vase.
“You kept it?” Nick felt his voice thicken with emotion. “You kept it.”
He picked up his father’s hand again. Whatever life had been in it before was lacking now.
“Dad?”
Nick felt for a pulse, but there was nothing.
55
The helicopter landed on a shale-covered patch of land on the far side of the river. Finn loped across the high road bridge. Nearly a dozen men had clambered out of the chopper and were spreading out in defensive circle: black camos, submachine guns at the ready, holstered pistols, night vision goggles, body armour. A couple of them even carried grenade belts. It was laughable overkill. They looked more like Special Ops cosplayers than mercenaries. Maybe it was a reflection of how dearly Mr Argyll wanted the werewolf’s heart.
“Sir!” yelled one of the mercs nearest the bridge, taking a knee to aim as Finn approached.
She slowed. No need to get shot, even with the Moon’s healing rays beating down on her.
She counted the number of weapons aimed at her. Nine men on the ground and what looked like a tenth still in the cockpit.
“Hi Col,” she shouted. At least it’s what she tried to shout. It sounded like a barely coherent growl; her mouth seemed to be crowded with extra teeth.
A man stepped from beneath the still-spinning blades of the chopper. As he approached he touched his fingers to a throat mic and said something she didn’t hear. No one shot her, so it was a good thing.
“And who the feck will you be?” shouted Col, aiming his weapon.
Col wasn’t a young man, but he was lean and wiry. He had sandy-coloured hair and pale eyes. He was also shorter than she’d expected, or perhaps she’d grown. She was trying hard to keep a lid on whatever was sweeping through her, but it was becoming more difficult with every minute spent under the Moon’s throbbing siren call. She pointed at his submachine gun.
“An MP9. Bold choish. Mosht would prefer the Ushi.” Damn the lisp she’d developed!
“Tell me now who the feck you are,” said Col, “or I’ll have them ID your corpse.”
“It’sh Finn.” She waved dismissively at her appearance. “I did a little firsht aid.”
Her tongue lolled out of her mouth when she tried to smile. She decided to avoid smiling.
“Jesus Christ, Finn,” said Col. “Duct-tape, yeah, I get that. I have no idea what kind of first aider applies – creosote is it?”
“It wash an acshident.”
He sneered at her. “Sure it feckin was. As for the tin-man face thing, that’s just weird.”
She’d seen that expression on men’s faces often enough to know it wasn’t just her appearance offended him. Some men couldn’t cope with women in the business.
“I’m shtill shtanding, that’sh the main thing,” Finn said.
“I’m not sure how,” said Col.
“Let’sh talk bushinesh,” said Finn.
Col’s eyes flicked to the plastic box in her hands. His
MP9 was still aimed – casually, but it was aimed – at her chest. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “I get the job done.”
Col laughed. “Are you trying to feckin kid me? Finn, if only your fucked-up appearance was the worst of your failures. Do you know how I found you, now? Any idea how this helicopter happens to have landed right where you are?”
Finn tilted her head, pushing down on the anger surging through her.
“I’ll tell you,” said Col. “It’s because I’ve had your target on the phone! Your. Target. On. The. Feckin. Phone!”
Finn’s gaze flicked left and right. She could see two of the bastards taking up flanking positions on either side. They needed to practice a bit more: they were a gnat’s whisker away from each other’s firing arcs.
“Let that sink in for a moment, Finn,” said Col. “I’ve had more actual contact with the target than I have with you the whole time. Maybe you’ll recall you and Adam spent the entire day following the wrong person, eh? Where is Adam, now?”
Finn was trying hard to retain control, but her rising anger was making it difficult.
Col waved away his own question. “Have you killed the two targets since we spoke?”
“No, but—”
“Okay so,” he said loudly, “to summarise. You’ve fucked-up on every level. You chased the wrong people, got Adam killed, and you haven’t even taken out a pair of idiots who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He turned to a man behind him. “Stefan. Take three of the lads to the house we saw. Anyone you meet is a target.”
“There’sh no one there but the old man and his shon,” said Finn. “And I shaw to the old man before I came down here.”
“There’s no fecker for ten miles,” yelled Col as the four men jogged off towards the bridge. “Be as loud as you like, lads! You can celebrate Guy Fawkes, Chinese New Year and Cinco de feckin Mayo for all I care.” His parting grin faded as his attention returned to Finn.
“I didn’t need your help,” she said.
“You’re a hopeless mess,” said Col, sneering again. “Look at the state of you.”
“I’ve got the heart,” said Finn, holding up the box.
Col shrugged. “Well, and at least that’s something.”
56
Nick sat in the shadowy darkness of the shed, trying hard to ignore the situation. There were so many things he ought to be doing. He ought to find a way of getting to safety. He ought to think how best to alert the authorities. He ought to work out what he was going to tell his mom if he ever got out alive. He chose not to dwell on any of those questions and sat with his head in his hands instead.
“What’s that smell?” asked Tony.
Nick’s head snapped up. Tony was lifting himself up onto his elbow.
“Dad?”
“From outside, can you smell it?”
“Dad, I thought you were dead!”
“Did you? I certainly felt a bit winded for a bit.”
“Wounded, not winded! Let’s look at your chest.” Nick ran a hand down Tony’s chest. Maybe it was because the light was poor, but it looked very much as if his torn shirt was stained with congealing blood while the flesh below it was healed.
“It’s a miracle,” he whispered, tears pricking his eyes.
“I probably just needed a rest.”
“Can you sit up? Is your breathing all right?”
“My breathing’s fine. Never better, in fact,” said Tony. He realised the tobacco tin was resting on his chest. With an oddly guilty look at his son, he shoved it away. “Look at the Moon! Glorious, isn’t it?”
The Moon was a greasy smudge of white in the Perspex window. “It’s just the Moon, dad.”
“We should go and have a look at it.”
“Dad, I’m pretty sure you died. More than sure. You stopped breathing and everything.”
Tony gave him a look as he stood up, stretching. “You’re not a doctor, son. It’s not always clear-cut.” He sniffed the air. “I can definitely smell something outside. It’s a friend.”
“You smell a friend?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not a normal thing to be able to smell,” Nick pointed out. “What does a friend smell like?”
Tony opened the door. “Pickles. Come on in.”
Pickles bowled through the door, nearly knocking Tony over, but his dad laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears.
“Dad, look at the size of Pickles. She’s grown loads.”
“Hath she?”
Nick peered at his father. Why was he lisping? Were those fangs?
“Ohh, I’m not sure I can handle this…” said Nick despite knowing (fearing more than knowing) exactly what was going on. He had been forced to accept there were werewolves in the world, and they confirmed many of the Hollywood clichés. He just needed to go one step further and accept his dad was turning into one too. He didn’t like the prospect of his dad going the full hair-and-claws. “Wait, I know what to do.” Nick fumbled around in pockets. “Take one of these. In fact, take two.” He handed Tony the bottle of homeopathic silver.
Tony gave him a look. “Washa matter? Oh.” Tony swallowed the pills and ran a tongue round his teeth. “Picklesh and I are werewolvesh now? Intereshting development.”
Nick nodded. “Although, to be fair, Pickles must be something else.”
“A weredog?” suggested Tony.
“Isn’t the were bit the man? She’s a sort of a dogwolf. Dog squared? She doesn’t seem at all bothered by it.”
“No,” said Tony, bending over the dog and stroking her face while she licked his hands. “She’s more bothered by that dreadful woman. Did you know she’s hurt some of the boars? Pickles is friends with those boars.”
“Dad,” said Nick slowly. “Can you speak dog now?”
“Um. Yes,” said Tony, as though he’d always been able to do it. Nick thought perhaps Tony’s fangs had shrunk a little bit. Certainly his diction had improved. “I can’t think how I couldn’t understand it before,” said Tony. “It’s as clear as day. You could probably do it too, if you put your mind to it.”
“No, dad, I think it’s the werewolf thing, I really do. So can Pickles talk human?”
Tony fixed him with a look. “No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.”
“Yep. That would be ridiculous.”
Nick tried to absorb the fact his father and his new dog were now werewolves. He really wasn’t sure how to proceed. Having his father alive was a definite improvement, but would he thoughtlessly eviscerate everyone if he got carried away with the whole werewolf thing? If Pickles’ behaviour was anything to go by, it was possible to be a good-natured were ... whatever. She capered around the tiny shed space like a Shetland pony sized puppy. She made odd whiffling noises as she nudged Tony. “What’s she saying?”
Tony nodded at Pickles. “She says the bad woman has gone to meet the big noisy flying thing – oh, the helicopter!”
“I’m guessing that’s Col,” said Nick.
“Probably with backup,” Tony agreed. “So, to recap: Finn is now a werewolf, she has the werewolf heart in a box, a helicopter full of gangster types who want to capture the heart has arrived, and they think we’ve got it.”
“Yes,” said Nick. “Sounds about right. You missed the part about you two being werewolves, though. Although, it looks as though those silver pills have done the trick with your fangs.”
Tony prodded his teeth. “Maybe.”
“We need to get out of here.”
“We don’t have the heart to negotiate with anymore,” Tony pointed out.
“Then we just need to make a run for it. You up to it?”
Tony breathed in deeply and patted his chest. “You know, I don’t think I’ve felt this good in a long while.” He started to open the door again.
“Careful,” said Nick. “They could be out there.”
Together, they cracked the door open an inch. Apart from the dozen or so wild boars milling about
, the square of pathetic garden between the farmhouse and outbuildings appeared deserted.
“Seems fine,” said Nick.
“You mean apart from the two men creeping round the house,” whispered Tony.
“Where?”
Tony pointed.
“I can’t see anything,” said Nick.
“In the shadows. Armed. They’re like the SAS about to storm the Libyan embassy. They’ve got them goggle things with the green glass in.”
Nick squinted and then looked at his dad. “By any chance, has your eyesight improved all of a sudden.”
“Funny you should say that.” There was definitely a golden tinge to his pupils.
“We have to get past them,” said Nick.
“Hmmm. It will be tricky.”
Pickles give a snort and a sniffle.
“What’s that?” said Tony. He was paying close attention to Pickles. Small yipping sounds passed between them.
“Are you seriously consulting the dog for ideas?” Nick hissed.
“It could work,” Tony said to Pickles. “Let’s do it.”
The dog slipped out the crack in the door and into the night.
“Where’s she off to?” asked Nick.
“Rounding up boars,” said Tony. “We get down on our hands and knees and crawl out amongst them. We’ll show up on the night vision goggles, but they will think we’re boars.”
Nick’s mouth gaped. He wasn’t sure which was more appalling. The plan itself, or the fact it had been suggested by a dog. Or, worst of all, the fact it appeared to be their only option.
A few minutes later they heard mass snuffling and trampling noises from outside. Nick peered outside. There were several dozen boars, milling around. They were doing an excellent job of looking casual, given the situation.