by Amy Cross
“Thanks a lot,” I say again. Fuck it, this is the first time anyone's been genuinely nice to me since I got to London.
The guy smiles, winks at me, and turns to leave. I watch him walking out the main door, and my heart sinks a little. Damn it, I liked him. Why didn't I get his phone number or something?
“Are you still at work?” Rossiter says straight into my ear, having come up behind me, “or are you just here to piss around?”
“Sorry,” I say, spotting a customer calling me over. “I'm on it”. I pause for a moment. “Do you know who that guy is?” I ask.
“No fucking idea,” Rossiter says. He eyes me cautiously. “Don't go falling for the customers, darling. It's fucking retarded. Get on with your job or you're out of here”.
I walk away, heading to the customer who is calling me, but suddenly a hand grabs my arm and I turn to find Barry Southern looking up at me. There's something different about him, as if he's completely pale and in shock. “I'm sorry about earlier,” he says, his tone of voice sounding like that of an apologetic child who thinks he's in a lot of trouble. “I promise I won't do that again. I promise”.
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he's being sarcastic. But looking into his eyes, I realise he's being genuine. It's almost as if he's suddenly terrified of something, and all his old bravado and swagger is gone. It's like he's begging for my forgiveness, like something really shook him to his core.
“Thanks,” I say, pretty freaked out, and I pull away and head over to the next customer. What exactly happened just there?
My shift finishes at 6am, which is when the club chucks everyone out and I have to start the second job Tom Rossiter has given me, which is cleaning the place up. It's a horrible job, and it takes me an hour and a half to wipe up all the spills, clean all the bodily fluids from the chairs, and generally try to make sure that the club doesn't stink of sweat. You'd never believe the stuff that's spilled in this place: drinks, blood, semen, mysterious unidentifiable fluids; you name it, someone's dropped some in here. And Rossiter hasn't even given me a pair of gloves. Finally, exhausted and ready to drop, I put all my cleaning supplies away and go to grab my jacket. It's almost 8am, and I've been at work now for 14 hours with barely a break.
“You done?” Rossiter asks when I go to his office. He doesn't even look up from the piles of cash he's counting. The whole office stinks of stale farts.
“So do I come back tonight?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off the money. There must be at least ten thousand pounds in his grubby, fat piggy hands.
“If you want,” he replies. “Think you can handle another shift?”
I nod wearily, figuring I can sleep during the day and then come back about 8pm for another night.
“You sure?” he asks. “You look fucking exhausted”.
“I'm fine,” I say. “I'll be back tonight”.
“Alright,” Rossiter says, sliding a few notes over the desk towards me. “Don't spend it all at once”. He laughs.
I step over and take the money. There's £40 here, not a great pay packet but right now I'm desperate.
“That's the fee for a trial shift,” Rossiter says. “You'll get a bit more for regular work”. He's still counting money, separating it into various piles.
“Thanks,” I say, putting the money in my pocket. “See you tonight”. I turn and head for the door.
“Jess,” Rossiter calls after me. He finally looks up at me, and there's a slightly mischievous glint in his eye. “You did remember to clean the toilets, didn't you?”
I stare at him. I swear to God, at that moment my soul just collapses.
It's just gone 10am by the time I finish cleaning the toilets and I finally emerge from the club into the bright sunlight of a Friday morning in Soho. The streets stink of the smell from local fast food places, and the noise is deafening as people stream past. I've been at work for more than half a day, and all I have to show for it is £40 in my pocket, plus clothes that stink of smoke and bleach and the promise of another night of the same tonight. As people mill about in the street, I try to decide where I'm going to sleep. I still don't have anywhere to live, so I'm going to have to find a park bench to take a nap. Still, at least it's a nice day, provided I don't get woken up and told to move along. Fuck it, I'm so tired I could sleep standing up, right here in the street. Would that be allowed? Would anyone stop me?
“Tough night?” asks a voice at my side. I turn and to my surprise I find it's the guy from the club last night, the one who paid off Barry Southern's bar bill. I didn't recognise his voice at first; in the club, he had to shout to be heard, but here he's talking softly with a slightly Irish lilt to his accent. But has he been waiting here for me all this time?
“Yeah,” I say, still exhausted but slightly excited. “Thanks for helping me out in there”.
“No problem,” the guy says. He grins, holding a hand out for me to shake. “The name's Matt DiMera, I don't think we'd met before last night but it's a real pleasure”.
“Jess,” I say, almost shaking his hand but pulling back. “You don't want to touch my hand,” I say, “I've just been cleaning toilets”.
He laughs. “Fuck it,” he says, “you stink of werewolves more than toilets”.
I freeze. Did he just say what I think he said? It's been almost two weeks since I met Duncan and discovered that werewolves are real, and I haven't told anyone about it. Not a soul. To be honest, I felt that if I mentioned it to anyone, they'd think I was insane. Hell, I'd even started to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. “Cool,” I say, feeling unnerved and suddenly wide awake. “Well, I have to go now, but maybe I'll see you around”.
I turn and start walking, but Matt follows me. “I'll walk with you,” he says. “It'll give us time to talk. So, I understand you're friends with a werewolf, is that correct?”
My mind races. What do I say? “I don't think I know what you're talking about,” I reply as we cross the road.
“Duncan the werewolf,” Matt says. “Your pal, isn't he? Come on, we know all about it. You and him got pretty friendly, didn't you? I particularly loved the way you teamed up to kill Frank Marshall. Great work”.
“I really don't know what -” I start to say, but Matt stops and grabs my arm, pulling me around to face him.
“Let's not bullshit each other,” he says, still with a hint of a smile. “I know what happened. You came to London, you met a werewolf, you helped him kill Frank Marshall. Do you want to know how I know this? Because I was watching all the time. And because three days ago I personally fished Frank Marshall's bloated, ripped up corpse from the Thames. Or what was left of him, anyway. So please don't insult my intelligence by pretending not to know what I'm talking about”.
I stare at him. “What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“I need your help,” he says. “I work for the Greystone organisation”.
“Never heard of them,” I say.
“You're not supposed to have heard of us,” he says. “We're pretty black hat”.
I think about it for a moment. “You work for the government?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. But I work for the same people the government works for”. He grins, then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little white plastic card, which he hands to me. “Room 401 at the Plaza hotel around the corner,” he says. “It's yours for the next week. Courtesy of the Greystone organisation. All paid for. Go and take a nap, you need it. And no offence, but you need a shower too, you fucking stink. In return, I'd like a chat with you when you have a moment. What time does your shift start tonight at that shitty sex club?”
I look at the key-card. I really, really don't want to accept this, but I'm so tired, and it's been weeks since I slept in a proper bed. “Eight,” I say reluctantly.
“Cool,” Matt says. “Meet me at seven in that pub over there”. He points at an imposing dark pub on the opposite street corner. “Don't be late. We've got a lot to talk about. Oh, and you get breakf
ast and dinner for free at the hotel, I can recommend the steak, it's wonderful”.
With that, he turns and walks away, hurrying around the corner and out of sight. I'm left standing there, holding the key-card, wondering what this all means, and wondering if there is any way I can ever be free of this curse of knowing all about the werewolves? Who the hell is Matt DiMera and how does he know so much about me?
2.
I howl in pain as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. Though I flail wildly in an attempt to shake him off, he just bites down harder and finally I collapse under his weight. Scrabbling about with my paws, I feel my own warm blood oozing from the wound and soaking my fur, and I swear I can feel the sharpness of his fangs deep within my muscle. Getting back on my feet and staggering ahead, I try to kick back at him but he refuses to let go. Finally, and with nothing left to lose, I haul us both to the edge of the platform and finally, with the last of my energy, I throw us both over the edge. It's the only way. If I am to die, at least I can take him with me into the depths of hell.
We land in darkness, and the jolt is enough to loosen his grip. I roll away from him and though the pain is intense I know this is my last chance to survive. Turning and running, I bolt though the pitch black tunnel, with no time to stop and look back to see if he is in pursuit. I don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to escape, but for now at least I am free. If I am to die tonight, at least I will have this final run. But I do not with to die tonight. I have so much more to do. And now, as I run, I sense him closing in behind me. This is it. I can't outrun him forever, and he is stronger than me. All I can do is fight and fight and fight until the life is forced from my body.
Glancing over my shoulder as I run, I see him bounding towards me. His eyes are fixed with madness, his jaws are wide open and his teeth are stained with my own blood. Never before have I encountered such a fearsome enemy, such a remorseless predator. He is entirely fixed on me, entirely focused on making sure that I die. He will accept nothing less than my complete destruction in his own jaws. And though I fight and fight, ultimately I have no ability to fight him off forever. This creature is determined to kill me, to rip my head from my body and pour my blood away. He is stronger than me, and I am not sure that I can hold him back forever. For the first time ever, I fear for my life.
I run and I run. It's my only option, though I feel my lungs about to explode. Ahead there's a light, and it's getting brighter. Running straight towards it, I realise it's the light of an oncoming Tube train. Should I take this way out? Should I run straight into the train, allowing myself to be obliterated by its speed? That would deprive my enemy of his victory, but I cannot bring myself to commit suicide. I must fight to the very last, until all my blood is spent. And now the train is just seconds from hitting me head-on, and I know my enemy is right behind me, and it is time to make the final decision.
Seconds. Milliseconds. The train is about to hit me. Is this the only way out? I try to imagine what it would be like, to feel my body obliterated as a train smashes through me. Instant, permanent death. I can't say it doesn't appeal...
To fight, to live, I leap at the last moment, throwing my body up and to the left. Just as the train makes to zoom past me, I fall out of its reach and I land up on the cold, harsh platform of an Underground station, though the lower part of one of my legs is just faintly brushed by the train as it thunders past. I look back, but all I see is the blur of the train shooting along the platform. I don't know where my enemy is, but I have no doubt that he too will have survived. I have to get out of here, and fast. All about me there are commuters, London people staring at me in shock. It's as if they've never seen a wolf before, let alone one that is wounded and bleeding and close to death.
Filled with rage and a determination to survive, I race along the platform, darting between the legs of the commuters, and finally I run into another tunnel, then onto another platform and finally down onto the tracks of another Tube line. I have a chance of escaping my enemy down here, because the grease and oil on the tracks might obscure my scent just long enough to let me get away. I run and I run, and eventually I allow myself to look back.
He is not there.
Reaching a pitch black junction, I stop between two sets of converging tracks. It feels as if my lungs are going to explode throughout my body, as if my entire being is about to die. After a moment, a brightly-lit Tube train thunders past. I look up at the people sitting in the carriages. I could be like them one day. I could abandon my wolf form altogether and become permanently human. I could get a little job in a little office with people who would have no idea of my true nature. But then what? Would I be safe? Would I be hidden from my enemies? No. As I catch my breath and look back the way I have came, I realise that even if my enemy is not immediately behind me, he will always be after me. And one day I will have to face him in a fight that I am almost certain I cannot win, a fight that has been coming for many years and which I knew would one day catch up with me.
This final fight has been coming for years. I knew when I came to London that eventually other wolves would catch up with me. But I always thought I would find a way to escape. I always believed that no matter how bad things get, no matter how desperate things might seem, there is always a way out. You just have to be smart enough to recognise it. But this time, I'm not sure I can survive. Sometimes, you have to accept that your death is approaching, and all you can do is prepare for it nobly and hope that you can at least take your tormentor with you.
3.
After washing and taking a long sleep in the hotel room, I head down to the dinner room and find that there's a buffet on offer. Wow. This time yesterday I was living on the streets, sleeping in a park and making do on just one meal a day from work. Now I'm staying in a swanky London hotel and I get to sleep in until the late afternoon without anyone bothering me and telling me to 'move along'.
After heading down to the restaurant and eating so much that I feel I'm actually fit to burst, I eventually head out and down to the pub where I said I'd meet Matt DiMera. It feels strange, walking along the street and not feeling like everyone is looking down on me. I guess Matt has helped me in some ways. And although I don't trust him, I have to admit that so far he's been pretty helpful and I should at least hear him out. If it turns out that he's crazy, at least I'll be in a public place. It's not like he can pull a knife of anything; and if he does, I should be able to scream before he gets close to my throat.
He's there before me, of course, sitting in the corner. As soon as I walk through the door, he comes over and offers to buy me a drink. Once we're sitting down, he asks about the hotel but finally he gets down to business.
“As I said before, my name is Matt DiMera”. He takes a deep breath. “I'm with an agency that deals with certain types of problem in London, and one of these problems currently is werewolves. And... I think you might be able to help me. Am I right?”
I stare at him for a moment. “I don't know,” I say. “What's your agency called?”
He smiles. “I'm from Greystone. But I can't really tell you very much about that. What I can tell you is that I have the power to make it very much worth your while to help me with a particular problem that we're having”.
I look across the room. There are a few customers sitting around, staring into their beers. This certainly doesn't seem like the kind of place where top secret operations would be discussed.
“How do I know you're not bullshitting me?” I ask.
He nods, as if he's been expecting this question. The faintest of smiles crosses his lips, just enough to tell me that he knows he can prove his credentials. “What time is it?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don't know,” I say.
He checks his watch, and shows me. “Five to seven, right?”
I nod.
“Good. Now look out the window”.
I look out the window, but all I see are a few buildings and, in the distance, Big Ben.
“Give me a number betw
een one and ten,” he says.
I think about it for a moment. “Five,” I say.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. “It's me,” he says. “She says five”.
I frown as he puts the phone away, and then suddenly Big Ben's bell rings. Then it rings again. Then again. And again. And then a fifth time. And then it falls silent.
“Impressive,” I say. “Obviously you have connections in the bell industry”.
“What I don't have,” he says cautiously, “is an established relationship with Duncan. I know you've met him. And I need your help to capture him”.
I look down at my drink for a moment. “To be honest,” I say, “you're not the first person who's wanted my help to capture a werewolf. And -”
“Frank Marshall was an idiot,” Matt says. “I knew him. The guy was a fucking moron. But people are dying here. Five, six people a week. And Duncan's responsible. You might think that's cute, but I can't have him running around slaughtering people. The press already think there's a serial killer on the loose, can you imagine their reaction if they found out that their serial killer is actually a werewolf?”
“Duncan doesn't kill people,” I say, realising instantly that I've just accidentally admitted that I know what Matt's talking about. I take a deep breath. “He only kills weak and ill people who are in pain. He does them a favour”.
“Really?” Matt says. He stares at me for a moment, then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a photo, which he passes to me. “Is that what he told me?”
I stare at the image for a moment, not sure what it shows, and then suddenly I realise: it's a dead baby with horrific injuries to one side of its face. I quickly pass the photo back to him. “What the fuck is that?” I ask.
“Charles Denver Rotherham,” Matt says. “Four days old. Snatched from a children's hospital nearby, witnesses reported a wolf seen in the building. The baby was found two streets away, mauled to death”. He puts the photo away. “His parents are inconsolable, and they want answers. I have a dozen more like this, ranging in age from four days to eighty years old. All connected by one thing: mauled to death by a werewolf”.