Val laughed out loud. “I think so, yes. Now your turn.”
Someone called down the end of the bar. Danny gave him an apologetic look, and headed off again. Val reached for his second beer, starting in on it. Sure, his arm still hurt, but at least his chest and shoulders had eased up. The alcohol was good for something at least.
She arrived back, wiping the bar in front of him. “Got to look busy. The boss just asked me if I was wasting time down here.”
“What did you tell him?”
“It’s too long.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s too long for the name badge.”
“You told your boss your name was too long?”
She threw the bar cloth at him. He got his hands up, fending it off. It landed on the bar top, where she scooped it back up. “Lucky. I’ll get you next time.”
“I consider myself reprimanded. Your name’s too long? So what’s it short for?”
“I don’t think I want to tell you that.”
“What’ll it take for you to tell me that?”
“Is that your third question?”
“No. My third question is why are you still talking to me?” Val gestured around the bar. “I’m no one.”
She looked sideways at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m not even a musician.”
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Is that your third question?”
“That’s my third question. You come back tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you what it’s short for. I finish earlier.” She left again, this time replaced at this end of the bar by another guy. Val nodded at him, held up his empty bottle. Another round couldn’t hurt.
Yeah. He’d come back tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When they stepped out of Presence Unlisted, it was well on the wrong side of midnight. The streets were empty of people; it wasn’t a hard Friday or Saturday night, and the big crowds were saving their money to buy happiness on a more popular evening. The cool of the early morning was an old friend, reminding Val of the comfort of bed to come. He probably should have been there hours ago. They wouldn’t even find an open MacDonald's at this hour.
John leaned against a lamppost, head down. He groaned. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“I’m not going to hold your hair back.” Despite them both having drunk the small bar out of Peroni, Val was still buoyant. The alcohol just couldn’t touch him tonight. Sure, he was a bit unsteady on his feet, and he’d probably feel like John looked closer to arriving at home in a few hours. Right now he just felt—
“No really, I’m going to throw up.” John’s back curled a little.
—happy. He looked back over his shoulder at the doorway of the bar. The details of the evening were losing clarity, their sharp edges blurring and becoming indistinct through overuse. All except the conversation he’d had with Danny. He knew he’d be back — nothing would stand in the way of that. That memory wouldn’t fade, and he knew however drunk he’d become he’d remember it in the morning.
His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of John throwing up into the gutter. “Shit man. Don’t get it on your shoes.”
John retched again, then turned and gave Val the universal gesture, middle finger extended upwards. He looked gray, eyes slightly unfocused.
“Yeah, fair enough. I’m betting you’ve got work tomorrow too.” Val chuckled. “Let’s find you a taxi.” He helped John upright, half carrying, half steering him as they walked away from the bar.
Typical. Any time you didn’t need a taxi you’d find the taxicab stands full of them, eager faces imploring you to take the easy route and just hop on in. Right now there wasn’t a taxi in sight, the rain slick tarmac free of almost any traffic at this hour. A lone street cleaning machine was trundling away from them, the howl of the brushes muted by distance. Now that was a shitty job, stuck in a tiny cab and scrubbing the streets of people’s waste, day after day.
Still. The guy was probably warm in that cab.
An empty bus passed them, the lit sign proudly proclaiming, “NOT IN SERVICE.” The two of them stumbled further afield in search of a ride home. John mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said, if we’re — wait, I need to throw up again.”
“Christ. I’ve known schoolkids who can hold their beer better. How do you even get drunk on beer anyway?”
“You know schoolkids? We need to —” The rest of this was cut off as John retched again. He straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Hell. We probably need to find a side street or something.”
“Thanks, Socrates.” Val shrugged. Statistically speaking John was probably right — there were less taxis where there were more people, so if they found a quieter area of the city they’d be more likely to get that elusive ride home. He steered their steps in a different direction. They stumbled past a vagrant, wrapped up in a dirty blanket and some newspapers.
“Fuck. We’re idiots.” Val started to pat his pockets down.
“What are you looking for?”
“Well, we could just call for a taxi. Beats walking the entire city looking for one. Fuck. I can’t find my phone.”
“It’s cool. Uncle John’s got his.” John offered Val his phone, who took it and started tapping in a number. “I haven’t been this drunk since I was last in Vegas. Tomorrow’s going to be hard work. I’ve got clients. You know what a hot gymnasium is like with a hangover?”
Val noticed them first as he hung up the call with the taxi company. It was the way they walked that hit him first, the over-arrogant swagger of those with something to prove. It was a group of perhaps ten young men, looking for trouble to belong to them. The usual warning signs were there, plain to see. Hoodies, drawn up over the heads. Baseball caps underneath. Too-loose jeans hanging low, underneath hunched postures. A couple of them were smoking. He looked at John. “We should probably go somewhere.”
“What?” John was slurring.
Val handed the phone back to him. “Taxi will be here in ten.” He pointed to the group with his chin. “Those fools.”
John squinted. “Ten minutes? A lot can happen in ten minutes.”
Val nodded, the look on his face saying it all. They both turned to cross the road, to get some distance. It was too late, of course. A whoop came from behind them as they were spotted, and the group ran in a haphazard clump towards them. Very quickly they were surrounded, ringed to prevent easy escape.
Val hadn’t been in a fight. Not since school, and those didn’t really count. John had always been there to sort it out. True to form, out came the signature Miles megawatt smile, ever so slightly loose from too much beer. “Guys.”
They were young. Just kids, really. Val could see that now: through the collection of mismatched clothing and wannabe gang patches, there wasn’t one amongst them over 22 years old. Damn. Kids always had something to prove. One of them stepped forward a bit. It was hard to see his face under the hood, the peak of a baseball cap poking out from underneath. His breath puffed in the cold, and he flicked his cigarette stub to the ground.
“You guys trying to,” and he glanced for the reassurance of the crowd to those around him, “get away from us? You cunts trying to run?”
John’s smile didn’t fade. He wasn’t trying for eye contact, and he was still swaying on his feet a little. “Run? Shit no. We just called a taxi, man. Thought we’d wait over here.” He gestured at a bus stop nearby, brightly lit advertisements surrounding an area of dry seating.
The leader nodded, as if agreeing. “That’s good. We don’t like it, do we boys? We don’t like it when they run.” Jitters and nasty laughter rippled around the ring.
Someone behind Val — he didn’t see who — pushed him hard on the back. He stumbled forward towards the leader, who pushed back again from the front. “Hey now. Watch your step. You almost ran into me.” Val felt nervous, a sick wet feeling in the pit of his stomach.
John stepped in front of Val, hands up. “Hey. No need for that. We—”
The leader broke in. “You a fag? This your queen bitch here? Well. You’ve got to pay. A fag tax.” More laughter. Someone pushed Val from the side, making him stumble again.
“Well, see now lads, there’s a problem—”
John was interrupted again, this time the leader’s voice angry. “Ain’t no problem, cunt. I said you got to pay. You and your fag pal here.” He seemed to consider. “Want to see my blade?”
Someone kicked the back of Val’s leg, and he went down on one knee. As he started to rise again, one of them punched him hard in the kidney, and he cried out. He could hear the heavy, eager breathing of the group around them.
John moved then, swinging with a boxer’s grace slightly muddy with alcohol. He was good enough though and he hit one of the thugs in the face once, twice, before wrapping the kid up in a hold and slamming a knee into his gut. The youth fell back, and John turned around and delivered another jab followed by an uppercut to the one who’d hit Val in the kidney. One of them stepped in to try and grab John, but he was too slow. John batted the kid’s hands aside, grabbed his hair, and slammed his fist into the youth’s face. They stepped back a few paces, watching as John turned slowly in place. Waiting.
It was as John reached a hand down to try and help Val back up that they caught him from the side, a punch Val didn’t even see coming hitting his friend in the jaw. John staggered, and the leader stepped in to deliver a punch to his gut. They grabbed John from the sides, held his arms, and delivered more punches to his face, his stomach.
Val was still on the ground, a clump of them landing kicks in on his body. He’d got his hands up over his head somehow, but their boots hit his body over and over. All of this was done without words, an efficiency of violence as the group used fist or foot against flesh.
The leader lost interest in John when he passed out, his head lolling loosely. They let go his arms, his body hitting the pavement like a sack of meal. Stepping around John, he approached Val, crouching down to be closer. The group stopped their beating, stepping back to catch their breath.
“This is it, see? See it fag? I said look at it!” He reached and slapped the side of Val’s head. He’d drawn a small, thin blade. Tapping the point against his palm, he said, “Got this from my bro. Every week, I cut someone with it. Every week. And this week? No one’s been cut yet.”
With that, he stabbed sharply down, the blade cutting into Val’s leg. Val’s cry of pain seemed to galvanize their leader, who stabbed again and again, going into a frenzy. The little blade entered arms, legs, chest, stomach.
The leader paused then, panting, and looked up at the group around him. They were standing in silent vigil. “What?” Blood dripped from the end of the knife, and was all over his hands, his jeans, and his boots. He looked down at the body, and seemed surprised to see Val dragging himself away.
Val was whimpering, a small animal noise of pain and fear. A slick of blood, dark red leaking out around him, marked his progress across the sidewalk. He was pulling himself towards a small alley. Some animal instinct goaded him, making him seek the safety of a cave to curl up in.
It was a long way to the alley.
• • •
For a moment, the group lost interest in Val, and turned their attention back to John. They rolled his unconscious body over, looking for a wallet, a phone, anything of value. They weren’t gentle, cuffing and shoving. One found John’s phone, and then with a shout he raised a fist full of paper: the remainder of the money won on Val’s achievements of the day. The notes were crumpled in his fist.
The leader nodded, the peak of his cap bobbing up and down. “Damn. These fags must have been working hard tonight. Turning tricks.” He giggled, a slight edge of hysteria creeping in. “Say. Where’s tubby? He must have something.” The knife in his hand moved as he remembered the surge of power as he’d stabbed the life from Val. He moved towards the mouth of the alley, following the trail of blood.
“Don’t run away!” he called into the alley. It was dark in there, and he couldn’t see much. There was a dumpster and a few trash cans. He started in, his knife held low. “Don’t make me look for you!” As he got deeper into the alley, his eyes adjusting to the low light, he was able to see the blood trail. It moved around the trash cans, behind the dumpster, and then … stopped.
“The fuck?” There was no body, no sign of his victim. Easy money lost. “Shit!”
Once when the thug had been smaller, he’d been taken to the zoo by a concerned uncle. Trying to sort his life out or some shit like that. They’d seen the tiger pens, the large cats pacing inside their too-small enclosures. It’d been close to feeding time, and the tigers had growled at the crowd as they paced back and forth, back and forth. If only they weren’t caged up, they seemed to say, all those people would have been lunch. Their growls had been full of urgency, and the part of him that wondered whether he should run or fight had screamed to run and never stop.
This growl was the same, primal sound. It came from his left, and he found himself frozen, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He turned slowly to his left and saw it. It was crouching down, half lost in the darkness and trash. He couldn’t make out the details, but he could tell it was big. No, not big.
It was huge.
It was as big as two large men together. His gaze was drawn to the eyes. Lambent and yellow, they stared at him, full of hunger. The knife dropped from his loose grip, his hands trembling.
His scream was cut short almost before it began, his body grabbed like a rag doll and dashed into the side of the dumpster, life snuffed out with a snap. The creature held up the broken body, and shook it once. Then it roared its rage and defiance at the corpse, and threw the body into the street with the same ease a child would discard a toy.
It moved fast, powerful muscles underneath a shaggy coat. From out of the alley it surged into the loose circle of youths, knocking a few of them aside with casual ease. It crouched over John’s unconscious body, muzzle bent close to his head. The beast sniffed once, twice, then placed a clawed arm on either side of him, crouching low.
It raised its muzzle to the sky and roared. The sound was pure animal rage, anger and challenge bound together in a song as old as life itself.
A couple of them broke and ran then. The rest stood, caught between fright and flight, unable to move. Just one decided to fight. He pulled an old revolver from his jacket pocket, pointed a shaky arm at the creature, and fired.
He managed just two shots before it was on him, batting the gun aside as if it were no more concern than a baby’s rattle. It seized him in two giant clawed fists, one at the thug’s shoulder and one on his leg. Raising the youth from the ground as if he weighed less than a cardboard cutout, it brought its muzzle close to his face. Breath puffed in and out as it sniffed again. Muscles bunching across its back, it tore the youth in two in a single quick motion, tossing the pieces aside.
That’s when the rest of them ran. Away from the creature, some blind instinct taking over as they sprinted down the street.
Not one of them was fast enough.
CHAPTER NINE
The stack of magazines was full of the usual suspects. Faces of the rich and famous smiled with candied sweetness. From the outside they seemed so perfect, and yet so many of them fell into lives of addiction and neglect.
He absently tapped at the small plastic box in his pocket. Val figured it was far better to be ordinary.
The faces in the waiting room were a fair mix of that ordinary. A kid was there, snot streaming down from his nose while he played with a small collection of septic-looking toys. His mother talked in low tones as he bashed plastic blocks against a small fire engine, the red paint chipped in so many places it looked as if it had been in multiple accidents. An old woman sat quietly, head bent over her cane. A young man, the very picture of health. Now that one, he looked nervous.
Maybe an STD che
ck?
“Mr. Everard?” Val looked up at his name, grabbing at his coat. Dr. Phillips was standing at the edge of the waiting room with a manila folder in his hand. He nodded at Val, then led the way down to his rooms. He closed the door behind them, then shook Val’s hand. “What can I help you with today?”
Val tapped the plastic box in his pocket again, then sat down. He draped his coat over a spare chair. “I think I’m sick.”
Phillips chuckled. “Well sure, Val. I don’t get too many healthy people in wanting to pay for a chat.”
“Sure. Well, okay, check this out.” Val stood again, patting at his waist. “See?”
“My wife does this to me all the time, Val. I’m not sure. Have you dyed your hair? Clinically, I’m not sure I can advise you on the right color.”
Val laughed. “No, Barny. Check this out.” He undid his belt and pulled his waistband out. If he hadn’t been holding his pants up with his hands, they would have just fallen down.
Barnaby Phillips’ face crinkled into a well-used smile. “That’s great, Val! You’re losing weight? When did you start?”
Val wasn’t smiling. “This morning.”
“Come again?”
Val did his belt up again. The hasty extra holes he’d punched in this morning weren’t as clean a look as he might have liked, but at least his pants stayed up. “I wore these pants last Tuesday. All my pants are the same though. Same size waist. I wear this same damn belt day in, day out. I woke up this morning and they were, well, I guess they were too big all of a sudden.”
Phillips pulled the stethoscope from around his neck. “Let’s check you out. I’m not sure I believe in this sudden weight loss, but there’s no harm in running a few tests. Anything else?”
Val reached into his pocket for the plastic box. It was a Tupperware container; Rebekah had been big into those and they were all over his house in all kinds of shapes and sizes. There was nothing special about this one, except that inside it were some teeth instead of a leftover salad. “These.” He tapped on the small blue lid with one finger, then left the box on the desk in front of Phillips.
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 6