by Amy Cross
“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, permanent like. If you 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.
Book 3:
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, dialled a number and waited for a connection. “Operation: Greystone is authorised,” he said eventually. “Extreme prejudice, no prisoners. Total extermination of Greystone and everything associated with it. With immediate effect”.
1
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 is sitting at the front desk, reading a paper. The man is so fat, even hsi double chin has a double chin. "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 wait up in ten minutes. 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 organisation 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 organisation 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 towards the door, but a figure looms out of the darkness and pushes his hand towards me. It takes a moment before I realise 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.
2
"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 pumping 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 favour 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 40-something (50-something)? 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".
We walk along the platform. It's strange to think that fifty years ago there were still trains stopping here, still people using the station as part of their daily lives. Then some bureaucrat decided they could save money by shutting the place down and diverting all passengers to Southfields. A magnificent place like Byfleet Station was just shut up and forgotten, a part of London's history shuttered and ignored. The authorities wouldn't even let us arrange a visit down here, which is why we had to be more inventive, with a pair of bolt-cutters. Thankfully no-one really gives a damn about us being here anyway. It's not like there's anything valuable down here.
"Maybe we'll see Lady Eustace," Margaret says, grinning.
"Maybe," I say. I don't say anything, but I'd prefer not to talk about ghosts. For one thing, they don't exist, and for another, they just perpetuate the idea of a place like Byfleet Station being separate from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, Lady Eustace is a pretty powerful legend. It's said the ghost of a suicidal woman from many years ago haunts Byfleet Station, often to be seen at the end of the platform, preparing to throw herself under a train. Then again, exactly the same thing is said about Embankment Station. I don't suppose the real Lady Eustace threw herself under two separate trains at two separate stations, so I imagine there's some... imaginative elaboration going on when the story is told.
Heading through into the old ticket hall, we find a largely empty space with a magnificent domed roof. Again, it's hard not to imagine what this place must have been like in the early 60s, when thousands of passengers each day flooded through here on their way to and from the trains. To see the place left abandoned like this, it almost breaks my heart. But at the same time, there's a real thrill at being the first people to come down here for so long.
"Who needs ghosts?" I say, shining
my torch up the walls. "There's enough to look at without pretending there's a bunch of dead folk wandering about down here".
"Spoilsport," says Margaret, going over to look at the window to the old ticket booth. It's about the size of a wardrobe, standing slightly away from the wall. "Funny," she says, peering at it.
"What?"
"Nothing," she replies. "Just this ticket window. The glass is covered in something, I can't see inside at all".
I wander over. When the station was open back in the 60s, there'd be someone sitting in the booth, selling tickets. Now it's just another abandoned part of the station, all the staff long gone and most of them probably dead. I put my hand on the glass to try to wipe the strange yellow stuff away, but I realise all the crap is actually on the inside.
"What d'you reckon it is?" Margaret asks.
I shrug and walk around to the door, but it's locked. I guess we'll never see inside.
"I don't think we'll ever know," I say. "Probably just mould". I wander over to the other side of the hall, then I walk a few yards down another corridor and shine my torch ahead. I'm probably the first person to stand in this tunnel in almost half a century; the first living thing, anyway. I breathe deep, but the air is thick with dust so I don't get much freshness. There's a distant rumble, the sound of a train passing in a different tunnel. That's another strange thing about these abandoned stations: often, just a few hundred metres away, there are busy stations still in use.
There's a scream behind me. I turn just as Margaret comes running over, grabbing my arm and turning to look back towards the ticket hall. "There's someone in there!" she says, her voice completely taken over by fear. She's clutching my arm, and she seems genuinely terrified.
"What are you talking about"? I ask, my heart racing. There shouldn't be anyone else down here, not even security guards. But maybe we missed a CCTV camera, or we tripped an alarm, or -