by Неизвестный
September 6th
He came padding in this morning, a half dead lamb in his jaws. He dropped it in front of me. It lay there trembling, its eyes rolling, to frightened even to bleat. Blood oozed from the puncture wounds in its stomach and one of its legs was broken. “Don’t let it suffer,” I said.
Stewart looked at me then loped outside, leaving me with the dying creature. I couldn’t let it suffer. I took the sharpest knife from the drawer and cut the lamb’s throat, there on the kitchen floor. It died quickly and without a whimper, leaving me sat there with the bloody knife in my hand. A wave of revulsion washed through me. I was horrified at how easy it had been, how natural it had felt, to become a killer.
Stewart came in and licked the lamb’s blood from the floor and from my hands. Then, standing up and shaking off his fur, he smiled at me. “Be like me,” he said. The temptation I felt was terrifying.
October 17th
Last night, he changed as we made love. I struggled but he was too heavy. His paws pinned me and his teeth pinched the back of my neck. Afterwards, as he slept, I crept into the bathroom and cried silently to myself. Not because it had been so wrong. I cried because it had felt so right.
I know now what I have to do. I must act before I lose myself completely in him.
October 19th
I gathered together all of the jewellery he didn’t like me wearing and which he had asked me not to bring. In the garage I found an old tin can to act as a crucible and a blowtorch with which to heat it. Dropping my trinkets, my rings and charms and bracelets, into the melting pot and applying the heat seemed like an act of utmost finality. Melting the jewellery down into a silver slick, I felt unreal and amorphous. The liquid metal bubbled gently, awaiting it form and purpose. Carefully, I dipped the sharpest knife from the kitchen, the knife that had killed the lamb, into the melting pot. The blade I withdrew was coated in silver, uneven and pitted, its edge dulled. But the point was still keen. It glittered in the flickering light of the blowtorch.
October 20th
He died as he had preferred to live, on four legs instead of two. I slipped the doctored blade into the curved muscle of his back, just between the shoulder blades. The tip of the knife pierced his heart, and as the first shudder of his dying passed through him, he turned his perfect black eyes gently towards me. Knowing what was happening to him, knowing what I had done to him, he still loved me, even to the end.
As his life left him, as his legs weakened and buckled, he laid his head in my lap, panting softly. I stroked his fur as he slipped away, soothing his passing. His gaze did not leave mine as he died. He held me in his eyes as he faded away behind them. No anger, no reproach, just the acceptance of the inevitable.
He must have known what was going to happen, what I was going to do. He must have smelt the apprehension on me, heard the tension in my voice, even smelt the poison of the silver-tainted blade, yet still he came to me. He came to me because he loved me, he came because I had called to him. He came because that would make it easier for me.
October 21st
The grave I dug was a circular pit, a more fitting place to bury a wolf than a rectangular trench. Getting him into it was more difficult than I had anticipated. Literally a dead weight, I was astonished at how heavy Stewart’s body seemed. In the end I had to drag him, heaving him by his paws to the last bed I had prepared for him. His head lolled and bumped across the ground as I pulled him along. The earth caked into his eye and packed into his teeth. I had wanted his burial to be simple and dignified, but reality had intruded and turned it into something squalid, mud caked and sweat soaked. I cried for him then, for the end of him, and I cried for myself, for the end of us.
When I rolled him into the grave, he fell in such a way that he looked as if he were lying on his side, like he had done in front of the fire. I climbed down to him and adjusted his head, placing it on his paws as if he were sleeping. I put his cigarette lighter, the favourite human thing I had given him, under his chin. I kissed his head, between his ears where he had loved to be stroked, and then I covered his body with earth and filled in the grave.
January 19th
It has been three months now, since I buried Stewart, but he never feels far away from me. Often I am woken in the night by the child he left in me, clawing and nipping at my womb. I wonder what our son will be like. Will he be handsome, with perfect black eyes and a mischievous grin, or will he have a tail, sharp teeth and a hungry look? It won’t be long now. I am frightened, but more than anything I want to hold my baby.
January 23rd
I have kept the knife, just in case.
A Family Christmas
By Richard Smith
The Christmas lights in Oxford Street always looked impressive - a dazzling display of neon colours that blurred together in the wet night air.
Christmas was the old man's favourite time of year. He enjoyed the festive spirit, the good cheer. A time for peace and goodwill.
His name was Goole. His heavy boots beat a steady rhythm as he strode purposefully along the pavement. The first light of morning had yet to arrive, and the streets were almost empty. The usually bustling pavements were deserted; the roads clear except for the occasional night bus. There was no-one about to pay any notice to an old man walking alone in the early hours.
Further along he turned into Regent Street, where yet more Christmas lights were suspended ahead and above. He crossed the road and turned into a smaller street to his right. Ahead, amidst dark shadows and the glow of the street lamps loomed the trees and shrubs of Hanover Square.
He held the Glock, loaded and ready, in his gloved right hand, his long coat sleeve concealing all but the tip of it. His destination was just beyond the trees. A private club, set in the basement of one of the fashion properties in this exclusive neighbourhood.
He entered the leafy enclosure in the centre of the square, picking a darkly shadowed bench to sit on. The sky above was cloudy, the moon and stars hidden from view. A statue of William Pitt The Younger stood in the darkness close by.
He waited, sitting still and silent for ten minutes, observing; checking the entrance to the club, listening to the sounds in the square and all around.
From a deep pocket in his coat he withdrew a suppressor, which he screwed into the barrel of the Glock. He carefully unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, and removed the woollen hat from his head, folding both and placing them in his pocket.
Finally, he stood and approached the club. A red rope barrier suspended on brass poles created a narrow lane leading up to the entrance, but there had been no large queues tonight. This was a private function, a Christmas party for the proprietor and a few select guests, and by now, most of the guests were long gone.
Goole's gloved left hand rapped hard on the imposing black door.
There was no reply. He rapped again, and at last he heard footsteps, then a man's voice. 'Who is it?'
The old man spoke with a gravel rasp. 'I've come to see Jameson, the owner.'
“He's not here.”
“Yes he is. He'll want to see me. It's important. It's concerning Roberts.”
A bolt slid and a lock turned. The door came open an inch. “Who are you?” The door opened wider. “Jesus, what's happened to your face?”
“Looks better than yours.” The old man raised the Glock and fired a shot through the gap in the doorway, the silenced round striking his victim just above the right eye, shattering bone and burying itself deep in the man's skull. Goole hurriedly pushed his way inside, stepping past the twitching body, closing the door behind him.
He walked on into the foyer, past a cloakroom; out onto an empty, dimly lit dance floor. Frank Sinatra was crooning softly over the sound system.
From a booth opposite, a large figure rose unsteadily, untangling himself from a female figure further back in the shadows, knocking an empty beer bottle onto the floor as he did so. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt, the collar open.
&
nbsp; “Who the hell are you?” He asked, his voice slurred, his finger stabbing aggressively towards the old man.
“Where's Jameson?” The old man asked.
“Over there,” the man pointed vaguely towards an alcove further back. “What's with your -” For the first time he noticed the gun in the old man's hand, and he backed awkwardly into the table, causing further glasses to break.
The old man levelled the gun at him. He held it there for several seconds, then gestured to the exit, before he continued walking. “Don't try to stop me,” he said quietly.
As he crossed the dance floor he saw a sign above the entrance to the alcove - the VIP suite. Behind, he heard the man talking urgently to his girl, then the sound of fast footsteps. He ignored the noise, and stooped down through the low entrance.
In the gloom within he could see a large, ebony table, piled high with numerous empty bottles and glasses; traces of coke and cigar butts. Sprawled across the couch, a large, heavily built man, with a dark, neatly trimmed beard and long hair, dressed in a gaudy Father Christmas costume, complete with hat.
Goole chuckled. “Wake up, Jameson,” he said.
The old man continued to sleep, but from the other side a woman sat up, bleary-eyed. For a moment she seemed too dazed to take anything in, and then as her eyes focused on the old man, she screamed.
“Get out of here.” The old man moved aside, leaving room for her to run past. He kept his eyes on Jameson, the gun ready at his side.
She stood up, pressing down her skirt and holding together her top, which the old man could now see appeared to be some kind of Elf costume, and then she ran past, back out onto the dance floor. He watched her go then returned his attention to the still-sleeping Jameson. “Wake up, Santa,” he said loudly.
There were further footsteps behind, barely audible over the sound of Sinatra, and the old man span around and fired twice as the man in the dark suit ran towards him, a baseball bat now held in his hands. Both rounds struck the man in the chest and he tumbled forwards, a wheezing groan escaping from his body. His momentum carried him on until he stopped at the old man's feet.
Jameson remained comatose. Goole pointed the Glock at the man's leg and fired a round into the muscle of his thigh. Jameson screamed out in pain, sitting upright, causing glasses and bottles to tumble from the table. “Jesus, what the fuck -” he shouted in alarm. He retreated back along the couch, his hands clutching desperately at his leg, blood spilling through his fingers, dark red against the red of the Santa costume. “What do you want?”
“I've come to kill you, Jameson,” the old man said matter-of-factly.
Jameson looked past the old man, wide-eyed and fearful. He saw the body on the floor. “Who are you? Who sent you?” He asked.
“It doesn't matter.” He fired three times into Jameson's stomach, one round catching Jameson's arm and deflecting up into his chest, the other bullets ripping though the costume and driving deep into his soft belly, tiny droplets of blood spraying the couch and the wall behind. Jameson fell back against the seat, tried to rise, then slumped sideways, falling between the table and the couch. With a final effort he staggered to his feet, causing the table to topple over in an explosion of tinkling, breaking glass, but he had no strength, and he fell forward heavily onto the floor.
The old man took a step back. “Have you finished?”
“You bastard,” murmured Jameson. “Who are you? I'll kill you.”
“The Christmas fairy. And I doubt it.”
“Who sent you? Who was it?” Jameson writhed on the floor, turning painfully onto his back to look up at the old man's face. His gaze was met by cold eyes staring down from shrivelled, sunken black pits. “Roberts ...”
“Of course it was Roberts. You pissed him off, Jameson.”
“He'll die for this, I swear it. He'll die.”
“Not my problem if he does.”
Jameson began to cough, dark red spittle forming on his lips. His eyes glazed over. “What are you waiting for?” He whispered. “Shoot me, you bastard.”
“I'm not going to shoot you, Jameson. I'm going to torch your club ... with you in it.”
***
One week previously.
Detective Superintendent David Roberts waited in the shadows. White ash drifted from the tip of his cigarette like Christmas snow.
He had parked his Audi under the flyover forty-five minutes earlier, and this was his fifth cigarette. He was tempted to throw it away and drive off, but necessity forced him to be patient.
It was approaching ten o'clock in the evening. The meeting had been set for nine. Roberts had chosen the location in west London because it was poorly lit and discreet. Now, in the gloom that made it difficult to see, he wondered if he had should have chosen somewhere with better visibility.
He hoped he had the right man for the job. The Ghoul's CV was certainly impressive enough. It was the old man's obsession with the occult that bothered him: a professional killer was one thing; a killer with a delusion was something else.
A figure approached and Roberts tossed the glowing butt into the gutter. He sat back in his seat and watched a tall man in a long coat approach, his features hidden by a hat and long scarf.
The man drew alongside the car, keeping back to the shadows of the underpass wall. “You're Roberts?” He asked, his voice ragged, dry.
“Yes. You must be Goole.”
“That’s me.”
“Have you considered my proposal?”
“Yes I have.”
“And what’s your answer?”
“It's an unusual request, coming from a copper. Not what you'd expect.”
“You know how the law works. Someone like Jameson can keep us tied up in the courts indefinitely. That's fair play, part of the game. But now he's crossed the line - he's threatened my family. I can't allow that.”
“So you want me to kill him.”
“Sometimes you have to sink to their level. You're supposed to be the best. But there can never be any trace back to me or my associates.”
“I don't see that it will be a problem to carry out. But how do I know I can trust you? This could all be a set-up.”
“Believe me, I've got a lot more to lose than you.”
“It could work out well for both of us. You're in a unique position to give me what I need in return.”
***
The old man had collected his payment, and then returned to the square. He stared at the gutted remnants of the club, watching the police forensic officers as they moved in and out. They had cordoned off the entrance, preventing the press and general public from coming too close as they continued their work inside.
Finally, he moved on, satisfied. He was not worried that the police might track him down. There had been witnesses, of course, and there was CCTV everywhere in London these days. But such things had never really bothered him. If only Roberts had delivered as promised, it would have been irrelevant anyway.
He turned back onto Oxford Street, the pavements now busy with jostling shoppers and tourists, searching for last-minute bargains.
The old man's hat was pulled down low, his scarf wrapped tight around his mouth and nose, so that only his ancient, wrinkled eyes were shown. Despite his age, his back was straight and his shoulders broad; pedestrians seemed to move aside instinctively as he made his way along the street towards Marble Arch, hands thrust deep in his pockets.
On his left, sitting in a doorway, invisible to the crowd that walked past inches from his feet, a middle aged man sat on a blanket, a dog lying at his side.
“Spare any change?” The man muttered.
Goole stopped. “What's his name?” He asked, pointing at the dog.
“Ben,” the man replied.
The old man chuckled. “Of course it is. How old is he?”
“I don't know.” The man shrugged. “Two, maybe. He's a stray.”
The old man reached into his coat and withdrew a large parcel. “Buy him a decent meal. He's
a good dog.” He reached across with his gloved hand to pat the dog, but the dog backed away, snarling viciously. “Sensible, too,” he observed. He tossed the parcel to the man. “Get yourself something.”
The man caught the parcel and began tearing at the corner. “What's in it?” He asked, but the old man had already headed on his way.
Irritated, Goole pulled out his phone and dialled Roberts.
“What the fuck was that?” He demanded.
“Wait a minute,” Roberts snapped. The old man waited, then half a minute later, Roberts was back. “What the hell are you doing calling me?”
“The payment. It was all wrong. I didn't want cash. That wasn't what I asked for.”
“For fuck's sake, Goole, three bodies and two witnesses and a burnt-down club isn't what I asked for either.”
“I got your man, and there's nothing to link it to you.”
“Jesus, is your phone even secure?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any idea how difficult it is to get what you asked for? I never said I could do it - I said I would try. But I couldn't do it. I don't have access to that kind of information. So what I did do is pay you double the going rate - you've got nothing to complain about. Double, Goole. That's a lot of money.”
“It wasn't what we agreed.”
“Don't do this to me, Goole. There's enough mess to sort out now as it is.”
“Is that your final word, Roberts?”
“It is my final word. Don't call me again.”