Werewolves of Soho

by Amy Cross

  “Thanks,” I say, staring out at the river as a harsh gust of wind ripples the water.

  “If it's any consolation,” Duncan says, “I used to think all humans were miserable wretches. Worthless. Stupid creatures devoid of courage or soul”.

  “And now?” I ask.

  “Now...” He pauses. “Not all of them. Just most of them”.

  I narrow my eyes for a moment, looking at the horizon, then I turn to him. “Thanks again,” I say, but I suddenly realize that he's not there anymore. Looking around, I see a familiar wolf trotting away. “Hey!” I shout after him. “Will I see you again?”

  He stops and turns, and for a moment we make eye contact and I get the feeling that, yes, I'll be seeing him again, even if I have no control over when that might be. For a moment, it occurs to me to follow him, and I take a step toward him. But, as if he somehow read my mind, he turns and runs off and I realize there's no point trying to chase him. I don't know where he's going, but it looks like he's in a hurry to get there, and I don't think he wants company. I guess he has to get back to his master, whoever that might be. One of these days, I'll find out...

  Sighing, I turn back to look at the river just as the first drops of rain start to fall. Great. I'm miles from nowhere, and I don't have any money for the Tube. I guess I've got a long walk ahead of me, and somehow I doubt I can go back to the hotel. Okay. I set off, mentally running through the huge list of things I have to do. Job one: find somewhere to live. Job two: get a better job. Job three: come back to see Olivia some time. I want to find out a little more about these Greystone people. When I arrived in London, I didn't feel like I belonged here. Now I feel I have things a little more under control.

  ***

  Rossiter lights another cigar and places it between his lips, taking a long drag as he stares at me.

  “You'd better show some fucking initiative tonight,” he says, his voice barely audible above the thumping music and the baying of the crowd. “I'm in no mood to piss about”.

  I nod. “Don't worry,” I say, turning to look at the crowd who are all waiting for the first girl to take to the stage. “I'll be fine”. I glance back at Rossiter. “You love me really,” I say, smiling.

  I work my way through the crowd, taking a few orders from various tables until, finally, I find myself in the corner facing Barry Southern. Oh great, my old pal, the guy who doesn't think he has to pay for his drinks. Once again, he has one hand stuffed down the front of his trousers.

  “Whiskey!” he shouts at me, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage just as the first girl emerges and the crowd roars.

  I head back to the bar and collect the various drinks for the customers. I can see that Rossiter is watching me, waiting for me to fuck up. I carry the drinks though the crowd and hand them out to all the customers, until finally I'm at Barry Southern's table with a double whiskey on my tray.

  “Six pounds,” I say to him.

  “I'll pay later,” he says, his eyes fixed on the stage, his hand moving disgustingly inside his trousers.

  “You have to pay now,” I say.

  “I'll pay later,” he says, then he mutters something under his breath: “Fucking whore”.

  I stare at him for a moment. Then, almost without planning it, I lean down and whisper in his ear. “If you don't give me the money right now,” I say calmly, “I'll rip your fucking dick off”. And with that, I shove my hand down the front of his trousers, grabbing hold if his semi-hard penis. “Money,” I say. “Now”.

  He stares at me, then he hurriedly pulls a £10 note from his pocket and hands it to me.

  “I'll keep the change,” I say, letting go of his manhood. “Thanks,” I say, and then I pocket the £10 and return to the bar, where Rossiter is smiling.

  “You got the money?” he asks.

  “Tip too,” I say, showing him the note.

  He grabs the money from me, looks at it for a moment, then pockets it. “You're hired. If you still want it”.

  “Sure,” I say, glancing over just in time to see Barry Southern hurrying out of the club. “I hope I didn't chase away your best customer”.

  Rossiter laughs. “I've got enough fucking customers,” he says, getting to his feet. “I'll be in my office”. And with that, he waddles off across the dance-floor. I'm left standing at the bar, waiting for some new orders to be loaded onto my tray. Fuck knows what I'll do with myself tomorrow, but for now I'm working a decent job and earning – just – enough to keep my head above water. It's not much, but it'll do. And tomorrow I'll head over to Greystone, to find Olivia, to see what she's doing and to check if there's anything I can do to help her. She looked so lost without Matt, almost as if he'd betrayed her. And then, one day, when I'm least expecting it, I know I'll see Duncan again. And that's good, it's what I want, because there's something very important that I have to ask him.

  Part Three

  A Spotter's Guide to Werewolves

  Prologue

  General Chaucer coughed, clearing his throat. Everyone else in the meeting was waiting for him to speak. He was the only one who truly understood the situation as it was developing.

  “My assessment,” he began slowly, “is that the werewolf situation has reached a point where we can no longer maintain the current status quo. The werewolves have shown themselves to have no respect for our wishes whatsoever”.

  “This was always going to happen,” said a man at the other end of the table. “We should never have trusted them in the first place”.

  “It was worth a try,” said Chaucer. “But ultimately it's clear that the situation is untenable. Greystone has proven ineffective when it comes to containing the creatures, and ineffective at recapturing them when they inevitably escape. There is one, named Duncan, who has been loose in London for many months now, and Greystone has made no progress in re-capturing him. In fact, they have failed miserably. For a short time, another werewolf was even hidden among Greystone operatives”.

  “A spy?” asked another man at the table.

  Chaucer nodded. “It's my assessment that Greystone has been fatally compromised and can no longer be trusted”.

  Silence fell upon the room. Shocked by Chaucer's strong words, everyone turned to look at the little old woman sitting at the head of the table. They were waiting for her opinion, but she was taking her time, thinking it through. Finally, she was ready.

  “Shut down Greystone,” she said in an upper-class English accent.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Chaucer. “And the Greystone operatives -”

  “Shut them down as well,” Her Royal Highness said sharply.

  Chaucer nodded. “We'll roll Greystone's previous duties into MIX for now”. He turned to the man sitting next to him, a short, middle-aged figure named Carver. “I gather MIX can be trusted to be somewhat more effective,” Chaucer added.

  Carver looked up at him. “Greystone will be terminated tonight,” he said in a quiet, confident tone. “With extreme prejudice and force”.

  “Excellent,” said Her Royal Highness at the head of the table. She stood up, and all the men around the table immediately got to their feet too, as a mark of respect. “This whole werewolf nonsense has been going on for long enough,” she continued. “I am minded to say that if there is not a dramatic improvement very soon, I shall simply order the whole lot of them to be exterminated. Including the ones on the Royal estate. Is that understood?”

  And with that, she turned and left the room, leaving the various generals and military operatives to weigh up the meaning of her words. The truce with the werewolves had lasted for so long, it seemed almost inconceivable that it might soon be dissolved and replaced by all-out war. Still, everyone around the table knew that such a war would be over in a matter of hours. Werewolves are no match for tanks, after all.

  Breaking the silence in the room, Carver pulled his phone out, dialed a number and waited for a connection. “Operation: Greystone is authorized,” he said eventually. “Extreme prejudice,
no prisoners. Total extermination of Greystone and everything associated with it. With immediate effect”.

  Jess

  Another Thursday night. But this one starts slightly differently. As I pull the bolt and open the front door of the strip club to paying customers, I hear a loud bang in the distance. Peering out the door into the dark Soho night, I see what looks like smoke rising in the distance. What the hell was that?

  "Terrorists," says Tom Rossiter, my boss, who's sitting at the front desk, reading a paper. "Hopefully."

  I use a fire extinguisher to prop the door open. "You want terrorists to attack?" I ask.

  He shrugs, not looking up from his paper. "Good for business. Don't ask me why, I'm not a fucking mind-reader."

  I head down to the bowels of the club, where tonight's DJ is preparing to start his sound-check. It's weird being down here when the customers aren't here yet. In a few hours, the club will be heaving with sweaty men leering at topless dancers, but for now it's a sad, dull space that smells of last night's lager.

  There's another boom in the distance. I look up and exchange a worried glance with Davide, the hot French bartender.

  "Probably just the end of the world," he says, smiling nervously. "Relax, Jess. We'll survive like cockroaches."

  I nod and head over to the cash register to add the float. What is it with people who work in the sex industry in London? Fatalists and pessimists, all of them. Still, two loud explosions within a couple of minutes, that can't be good.

  I look up as I hear the stairs start to creak. Tom Rossiter is heading down, his obese weight almost too much for the club to handle.

  "Electricity sub-station malfunctioned," he says with an air of dis-interest. "It was just on the news. Half of Battersea's out of power."

  "What about the second one?" I ask.

  Tom sniffs as he reaches the bar. "I don't fucking know," he says. "Davide, usual."

  As Davide fixes Tom a drink, I finish setting up the float and then I grab the trash bags, carrying them out to the dumpsters behind the club. Of course, the damn dumpsters are packed already and I have to really force the latest bag inside. Fuck, this is glamorous work.

  "We need to talk," says a voice behind me.

  I spin around to find Duncan watching me from across the little courtyard. It's been a couple of weeks since I last saw him, but he's barely left my thoughts. After all, when you meet a genuine, honest-to-God werewolf, you kind of remember.

  "I'm at work," I say cautiously. "You want to come in and grab a drink?"

  Although he clearly doesn't want to come inside, I leave him no choice once I turn and go back in. Reluctantly, he follows me, looking completely out of place with his long black coat and his intense, intelligent eyes.

  "You like beer?" I ask as I reach the bar. I grab a beer glass and pour Duncan a pint, passing it over to him. "You like it, right?"

  "Yeah," he says, and he takes a big gulp. There's a pause, and then he spews it out all over the floor. "God," he says. "No. I don't like it. Damn it, I could've sworn I'd tried bear before." He wipes his mouth. "No, wait, that was something else." He puts the rest of the pint on the bar as Davide comes around and thrusts a towel into Duncan's arms.

  "Clean it up," Davide says, going back around the bar.

  Duncan looks at the towel, as if he's not sure what to do, so I grab it from him, get on my knees and soak up the beer from the linoleum floor.

  Somewhere in the distance, there's a third loud boom.

  "Three," says Duncan. "Then it's confirmed."

  I stand up. "What's confirmed?" I ask.

  Duncan looks suspiciously at Davide, who is wiping down part of the bar.

  "It's okay," I say.

  "Wait," Duncan says. He walks behind the bar, puts a hand on Davide's neck and squeezes. Davide drops to the floor.

  "What the fuck?" I shout, rushing around.

  "Relax," says Duncan. "He's just unconscious, he'll wake up in ten minutes. Give or take a day or two, anyway. What I have to tell you can't wait."

  "What?" I ask, casting a glance down at Davide.

  Duncan looks at me, and it's clear from his expression that he's worried. “There are three Greystone bases in London. One to the north, one to the south, and one to the west. It's not a coincidence that that's exactly where those three explosions just happened”.

  I'm not sure I understand what he means, at least not at first. “Why would they be blowing stuff up?” I ask.

  “They wouldn't,” Duncan says. “Do you have a mobile phone?”

  I nod, pulling it from my pocket.

  “Check the news,” Duncan says.

  I pull up the BBC homepage and look at the top story. “Early reports say a power surge,” I say, reading from the screen. “Transformers at three power stations had small explosions. Nothing to worry about, apparently. That's what my boss said”. I look up at Duncan. “Do you think that's true?”

  “No,” he replies. “Someone just took out Greystone. And there's only one organization with the power and will to carry out a strike like that”.

  I wait for him to tell me. “Who?” I ask eventually.

  There's silence for a moment. "I could be wrong," he says. "And hopefully I am. But if I'm not, you need to be very careful, do you understand? If they think you know anything at all about Greystone, they'll..." His voice trails off.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Just be careful," he continues. "If there's anything suspicious, you run, got it? Anything at all."

  "Why would they give a shit about me?" I ask.

  "Because you know about Greystone," he says. "You've been to one of their bases, you know what they do, you've met some of them. And if they're setting out to eradicate all traces of Greystone, then that's going to include anyone who knows anything about the organization at all. Do you understand now?"

  I nod. "So you're in danger too?"

  "I can look after myself," he says. "So can you, but you have to take the threat seriously."

  "I will," I say. "I do."

  He turns to leave.

  "What about you?" I ask.

  He stops at the door and looks back at me. "It's best if we stay apart for now," he says. "They certainly know that I've encountered Greystone, but you might be safe. There's no point both of us being in the firing line."

  And with that, he's gone. I'm left standing in the bar, just as there's a groan from the floor and Davide starts to wake up. I go over and help him to his feet.

  "What the fuck happened?" he asks.

  "I think you fainted," I say, keeping one eye on the door. "Listen, I just have to go and speak to someone. Back in a second."

  I rush out, trying to catch Duncan, but he's already long gone when I get out into the back courtyard. Once he's in his wolf form, he's fast and agile; he's probably far away by now. I look up at the night sky. There's still some smoke coming from a couple of spots on the horizon. The news channels are all reporting a fault at a series of power stations, but things look more serious than that.

  There's a noise behind me. I turn. It sounded like someone kicking a can. I step toward the door, but a figure looms out of the darkness and pushes his hand toward me. It takes a moment before I realize he's holding a large knife, and by then it's too late: the blade slices straight into my belly, and then he pulls it out and stabs me again in the chest. I try to hold onto him, but he pushes me away and I slam to the ground. As I try to get up, he kicks me to the ground, rolls me over and stabs me five or six more times in the chest.

  I feel the blade pierce my heart, and everything goes black.

  Martin

  "What was that?" Margaret asks, turning and shining her torch back down the dark tunnel.

  "Rats?" I ask. Although I didn't hear anything, I turn and look anyway. Down here, hundreds of feet beneath London and with rats and God knows what else scurrying about, you can't be too careful. We stand in total silence, listening, but all we hear is the usual low rumble of the generators pump
ing air into the system.

  "Nothing," Margaret says, her voice sounding fairly calm. We turn and keep walking along the abandoned Underground tracks.

  As a first date, this is going pretty well. Since Margaret and I have a shared interest in abandoned London Underground stations, we decided to forego the usual dinner and wine experience (which I can't really afford anyway) in favor of breaking down the door to an abandoned sub-station and trudging three miles along the old tracks. Sure, it's not the most romantic story of all time, and we're already filthy, but we're on a mission and we both know that this is going to be a real achievement. Our target is Byfleet Station, one of the deepest abandoned stations on the network. No train has stopped here since 1965, and this stretch of track is completely out of action. Even the freight trains that criss-cross London by night don't come along here. The track is switched off, and until we arrived there was no-one and nothing down here except some thriving colonies of rats.

  Just before 3am, we finally get to the station itself. With just a couple of torches to light the way, we climb carefully up onto the abandoned platform. I go to the wall and wipe dust off the sign. It's Byfleet alright, and the feeling of satisfaction is immense. Other bloggers have commented for years on Byfleet station, but no-one has ever managed to make their way down here before. When I get these pictures on my blog, I'll be world-famous!

  "This is so cool," Margaret says, sounding more like a teenager than a late middle-aged woman. "I bet no-one's been down here in years."

  "We're lucky they didn't bother isolating it," I say, shining my torch up at the crumbling ceiling, which is covered in wires, pipes and occasional vents. I take a deep breath. I'm not exactly young myself. At 52, I should really have given up on these adventures long ago. But there's something fascinating about exploring the parts of London that no-one else sees, the parts that no-one else even knows about. "Good supply of air down here still."