High Moor

by Reynolds, Graeme

  The years of neglect had taken their toll. Grasping brambles had overgrown the garden. A mountain ash had sprouted in the centre of what was once a neatly maintained lawn. His mother’s vegetable beds were all but invisible beneath the encroaching weeds. Most of the glass in the greenhouse was gone, and ivy wrapped itself around the aluminium frame until it resembled the green skeleton of a building. The house was worse. Slates were missing from the roof and the chipboard sheets covering the doors and windows had swollen with exposure to the elements until they burst free from the rusted nails that had held them in place.

  The grass was flattened in a single track around the house. Someone had been here in the recent past. One person, judging by the tracks. John stayed low and listened for any telltale noises. Any indication that he was not alone, but again, heard nothing out of the ordinary. He picked his way through the overgrown garden and followed the path around to the side of the house. When he reached the edge of the building, he stopped and checked his weapon before he craned his head around the corner.

  The front of the property was in no better condition than the rear. A sea of weeds had buried the gravel driveway. A pair of tire tracks led from the lane into the middle of the yard, and then the vehicle had turned around and gone back the way it had come. Two cigarette ends lay next to the tracks. Whoever had been here was gone, for now at least. John put the pistol back into his pocket and walked up to the front door of his childhood home.

  He took out his key fob and selected the tarnished brass key to the front door, still on his key ring after so many years, a constant reminder of where he'd come from and what he'd done. The front door had expanded in its frame and required several strong tugs before it creaked open for the first time in a decade and a half.

  It took a moment for John’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The only light within came from the open door and shards of light entering through gaps in the window boards. Fifteen years of dust swirled in the air currents and danced in the light before winking out of existence as it entered the shadows. A small pile of letters and old newspapers were scattered across the faded carpet. John picked them up and checked the dates on the postmarks. None were more recent than 1995. He placed them on a table and headed into the living room.

  The scents of rot and mildew, mingled with the faint ammonia tang of rodent urine, filled the damp air. The wallpaper was peeled back from the bare plaster and covered in black mould spots. The carpet squished underfoot. He entered the hallway that connected the rooms of the ground floor. The door to the kitchen was open, and he could see piles of washed dishes that had waited to be dried and put away for over a decade. A recipe book lay open on the worktop, the words buried beneath a layer of dust. His father’s jacket was draped over a chair next to the kitchen table. John remembered his father's cursing when they got out of the car on that cold February day, and he realised that he'd forgotten it.

  Long repressed memories flooded back. His mother sitting with him at the kitchen table, trying her best to teach him mathematics and science from old textbooks. His father coming in from the garden with dirty feet and the subsequent tongue lashing that he got.

  John left the kitchen and walked to the basement door. He paused, his hand hovering above the doorknob. Annoyed at his hesitation, he grasped the handle and turned it. The stairs descended into pitch darkness. The air was heavy with a musky animal odour, even after so many years. There was no sign of rodent infestation, however. Rats and mice knew that this place had been the lair of a terrible predator and had stayed well away.

  He descended the wooden staircase, testing each board before putting his weight on it. The door to his old cell lay open. Cleaning materials: a mop and plastic bucket, along with several bottles of bleach, stood against the wall. John bit back the tears, remembering his father’s face at the window for each and every change, telling him to fight it, to keep control. The last thing John ever remembered when he turned was the disappointment in his father’s eyes as the beast broke through and the change began.

  He checked the door and was glad to see that it still functioned. He would need this place in a few weeks, unless he could finish his business here before the next full moon. Satisfied, he turned around and climbed the staircase.

  He emerged from the dark, into the hallway, and turned to leave when a shape stepped from the shadows and blocked the open front door.

  “You should really lock that door, John. Anyone could walk in.”

  “Yeah, it looks like they just did. Is that a gun in your pocket, Steven, or are you just glad to see me?”

  Steven took a step forward and shrugged. He reached into his pocket and produced a 9mm pistol that was the twin of the one John carried. He put it on the table, next to the pile of post. “I'm glad to see you. What the fuck do you think? So, John, how have you been? It’s been what? Fifteen years? You don’t call, you don’t write. I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten about me.”

  “You know how it is. Time gets away from you. It’s good to see you, Steven. You’re looking well.”

  The older man laughed. “That’s bollocks, but thanks anyway. I know I look like crap. Cancer will do that.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Only if you consider terminal to be bad."

  John nodded. “How long do you have?”

  “No idea. Six months to a year, maybe. Two at most. Truth be told, I just don’t think about it.” He removed a pack of cigarettes from his coat and lit one, then broke into a coughing fit.

  “Should you be smoking those, considering?”

  “Stopping won’t make much difference at this point, and I don’t want to spend my last days pissed off because I’m craving a cigarette. Better to die happy. Anyway, what about you, John? Where the hell did you go?”

  “I left straight after the funeral. The police weren’t interested in me as a suspect, and I couldn’t stand to be around here anymore. Not after what I did. And, if I’m honest, I thought you might decide to take matters into your own hands.”

  A wry smile played across Steven’s face. “Well, I can’t say that it never occurred to me. I know you didn’t intend to kill your parents and the rest of those people, but the fact remains that you did. There was one slip up, and seven people were torn to pieces as a result. I wasn’t sure whether letting you live was worth the risk.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ll reserve judgement. Has it happened since?”

  John looked at his feet. “Twice. Once in Germany in ninety five, the other in Scotland in ninety nine.”

  “Deaths?”

  “A few, but only people who deserved it. After ninety nine, I did my best to disappear. I bought a place in the middle of nowhere and stayed there. After that, no more problems.”

  “Fair enough. So what exactly are you doing back here?”

  “Same thing as you, I imagine. I saw the news reports. I thought I might be able to do something.”

  “Like what? If it's another werewolf, and he’s like you, then until the full moon, he’s just going to be another person walking around in a town of forty thousand. When he changes, you’ll be no bloody good because you’ll be locked in your basement, howling at the fucking moon. What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish here, except for bringing another bloody werewolf into the equation?”

  “I…I honestly don’t know. I thought that I might be able to sense it, or something. Find out who it was before the next full moon.”

  “You can do that? Sense other werewolves?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I felt something, years ago, but I’m not sure. I thought it might be worth trying. Besides, I get the feeling that it’ll find me first. The whole thing seems like someone is sending me a message.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The man that survived the attack, Malcolm Harrison. I knew him when I was a kid. He used to pick on us: me, Michael and Marie. The fucker made our lives hell. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. I thoug
ht it might be Michael.”

  “John, you’re a fucking idiot. Michael died in 1986. I saw the body. If this is a message, then it’s The Pack trying to flush you out. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place.”

  “I have to know, Steven. If it’s The Pack, I’ll deal with them and then get as far away as I can, but until I know for sure, I’m staying right here.”

  Steven picked up his pistol and put it back in his pocket. “I’m only going to tell you this once, John. Go home. Get back in your car and then piss off back to wherever you came from. Let me handle this.”

  “Sorry, Steven, but I can’t.”

  “Your choice. Just be warned. Anything running around with fangs and claws on the next full moon is fair game. That includes you.” Steven turned and walked out of the front door.

  John stood in the doorway. “It really was good to see you again, Steven.”

  The old man nodded. “You too, John. You too.” He turned and walked away into the rain.

  Chapter 24

  31st October 2008. Treworgan Farm, High Moor. 19.45.

  John was despondent after Steven's visit. Doubts clouded his mind, and he felt as if he were being watched from every shadow. In an attempt to distract himself, he assessed the damage to the house and set about trying to make it habitable once more.

  He purchased two rolls of roofing membrane and a box of replacement tiles from a local builder’s merchant and managed to repair the worst of the damage to the roof. Some of the supporting beams were rotten and would need to be replaced, but the hasty repairs had at least made the building watertight. He hired a petrol generator and four industrial dehumidifiers, which he positioned around the house in an attempt to dry the place out. Finally, he removed the boards from the windows and doors, to allow sunlight into the darkened rooms for the first time in years.

  He ate a takeaway pizza in his old bedroom, which had escaped the worst of the water damage, and fell asleep on the same sheets that he'd slept in on his seventeenth birthday.

  His sleep was troubled. Claustrophobic dreams of being trapped in an elevator filled with blood plagued him, and he awoke sticky with sweat several times during the course of the night. When the dawn came and the light woke him, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  John drove around the town for hours and walked the length of the high street at least four times, hoping he would feel something, any indication at all that there was someone like him nearby, but he felt nothing. Nothing of another werewolf, and nothing for the small town where he had grown up. He walked in anonymity through the streets, visiting childhood haunts. No one recognised him, and he saw no familiar faces in the crowds that rushed past in the street. He was an intruder here. He didn’t belong.

  He returned to the house at four in the afternoon, thoroughly depressed, and began the mammoth task of cleaning over a decade of filth and neglect from the place. After four hours' hard work, the house began to look habitable. He scrubbed the kitchen work surfaces and floor until all trace of dust and mould had been removed. Then he tackled the bathroom, living room, and his bedroom. He hadn't managed to get the electricity and gas reconnected, despite several irate calls to their call centre. Instead, he cooked a simple meal on a portable gas stove and ate it off his mother’s best china by candlelight, with a glass of cheap red wine.

  He sat at the table, his meal completed, and thought about his next move. “Think, dammit. You’re not going to get anywhere by wandering around the town with no clue. So come on. What’s the plan?”

  He poured himself another glass of Merlot and thought about his options. There wasn't much to go on. One attack, three weeks ago. One witness. Realisation dawned on him, and he groaned. “Oh bollocks, I’m going to have to talk to Malcolm bloody Harrison.”

  ***

  31st October 2008. The Sandpiper Pub, High Moor. 21.00.

  John looked up Malcolm’s home number in the phone book and called, posing as a reporter doing a follow-up on the attack. A woman with a harsh northeast accent answered, and informed him that “The useless fat bastard’s down the pub with his waster mates. Again.” John thanked her, hung up the telephone and then called a cab.

  The taxi driver dropped John off in the pub car park. The building was a casualty of nineteen sixties architecture, flat roofed with corroded aluminium window frames and pebble dashed render covering the concrete walls. Paper pumpkins and witches decorated the windows, and strobe lights flashed against the glass as they pulsated in time to the music from within.

  A group of people gathered by the entrance, smoking cigarettes, forced to congregate outside in the bitter wind after the smoking ban the previous year. Witches in short skirts mingled with vampires and zombies. An argument broke out between a short girl dressed as a nurse, and a shaven headed young man in a monk costume. The girl’s friends dragged her away as she kicked and screamed obscenities at the monk. The monk shrugged and lit another cigarette as John stepped past him, into the pub.

  John felt light headed and sweat beaded on his palms as he stepped into the crowded, noisy building. People stood five deep at the bar and screamed conversations at each other, in an attempt to be heard over the pounding music. John pushed his way through the dancing crowds and found a space next to a concrete pillar, where he could stand without being shoved or jostled. He usually did his best to avoid people, and he didn't feel comfortable being in such close proximity to this many. He realised something. This was the first time he'd ever set foot in a bar on a Friday night. It didn't look like he’d been missing out on much.

  He tried to relax. He was here for a reason. The sooner he found Malcolm Harrison, the sooner he could get out of here. He scanned the area, but there were too many people packed around for him to see much from his current position. He stepped away from the protection of the pillar and squeezed through the gyrating throng, around to the other side of the bar.

  This side of the pub, while busy, was nowhere near as crowded as the area around the dance floor. People sat around stained wooden tables, sipping their drinks and trying to hold a conversation over the relentless bass beat of the disco, or stood in small groups around the walkways between the seating area and the bar. John scanned the faces around the tables and grinned when he located his target.

  The years had not been kind to Malcolm. The last time John saw him, he'd been a stocky boy, with thick brown hair, and sunken pig like eyes. Now that stocky frame had swollen into rolls of flab that protruded from under his t-shirt. His head was shaved in a vain attempt to hide his encroaching baldness. His small, beady eyes were red-rimmed and staring. Apparently Malcolm had started the evening’s celebrations early. John moved closer and made a show of putting a couple of pounds into the one-armed-bandit next to Malcolm’s table, while he listened in to the conversation.

  A small, grey-haired man in an old t-shirt and stained jeans leaned across the table. “So, come on then, Mal. Tell us what happened, again.”

  Malcolm took a swig from his pint glass and puffed himself up. “Fuck’s sake, Billy. How many times you have to hear it. I was walking the dog, when something got hold of him in the park. I ran over and chased it off, but by the time I got there it was too late.”

  Billy sniggered. “That’s not what I heard, mate. I heard you ran like Usain fucking Bolt all the way back to your house, crying like a big lass the whole way.”

  Malcolm’s faced turned beetroot and he got to his feet. “Who the fuck told you that?”

  Billy grinned. “Your Karen. She told everyone. Well, she told Lizzie Fletcher, so she might as well have.”

  The other men around the table, a tall, thin man with dark greasy hair and a fat red faced man with blond hair burst into laughter. Malcolm slammed his fist into the fruit machine that John was pretending to play. “Fucking bitch! I’ll kill her when I get home.” He looked at John and his piggy eyes narrowed. “Do I know you, mate?”

  John stepped back, surprised. “Erm…no, sorry.”

  “Then why
are you so fucking interested in our conversation?”

  “I’m a freelance journalist, looking into what happened here. Sorry if it looked like I was listening in. I was just trying to work out the best way to approach you.”

  Malcolm turned his head to his friends. “You see that, you fucking losers. I’m famous.” He looked back to John. “So, how much we talking about?”

  “I’m sorry? How much…?”

  “Money. For the story. What the fuck do you think I meant?”

  “Ah, right. Well I’ve got to sell the story on, but how about I get a few rounds of drinks in and we just have a chat?”

  The thin, dark-haired man regarded John. “Are you sure we don’t know you? There’s definitely something familiar about you. You been on TV or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. I grew up around here, but I’ve not been back for years.”

  “What’s your name? I might remember you?”

  “It’s John.”

  The blond man’s eyes widened in recognition. “John Simpson? Are you John fucking Simpson?”

  John felt his stomach lurch. He hadn’t counted on being remembered. He thought about lying, but realised that, at this stage, it probably wouldn’t do much good. “Yeah. I’m surprised you recognised me after all this time. Sorry, but your name is…?”

  Malcolm’s hand slapped down onto John’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember my friends? Billy, Simon and Lawrence? We definitely remember you.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, lads. I’m sorry for bothering you on your night out. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Don’t talk shite, man. Stay and have a drink with us, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know, so long as you tell us what happened to you.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “Fuck, yes. You’re a bloody urban legend around this town. All that shit happened, and then you just vanished, never to be heard from again. Until now. Come and have a couple of pints and we’ll swap stories. OK?”