by Ian Jarvis
Turner had been stationed at Dartmoor Prison for six years and most inmates referred to him as Turner the Screw, although only the bent solicitors and other more literate prisoners understood the jokey reference to the writer Henry James. Despite its formidable appearance, the centuries old jail had been downgraded to Category C and now housed white-collar criminals and sex offenders. The guard turned from the window to stare at the slender prisoner sitting opposite. Sebastian Moran was definitely not Category C. Psychiatric experts and most normal people would argue that he deserved a category all of his own
‘You don’t like me, do you?’ asked Moran. He flexed his wrists in the handcuffs. A chain tethered the security belt around his waist to an anchor point on the side of the vehicle and kept him a safe distance from Turner. ‘I’ve noticed how you always look at me in a certain way.’
‘Yeah, that certain way is loathing.’ Turner let out a dry laugh. ‘I didn’t like you when we thought you were a nonce, but since they discovered the truth and found out what you really are...’ He grinned sarcastically. ‘No, Sebastian, I don’t like you one bit.’
The police had arrested the forty-year old Moran in one of their Internet paedophile operations and prosecuted him for the horrific images of young boys on his computer. He’d been sentenced to two years in Dartmoor, but things quickly changed when the new people who purchased his rented property decided upon an extension. A gruesome surprise awaited them under the dining room floorboards and, following a hasty judicial rethink, Moran was now on his way to Broadmoor Mental Hospital to await trial for multiple murder.
‘You’ll like your new home,’ said Turner. ‘They have special padded wallpaper and you’ll get a smart new coat that fastens at the back. Won’t that be lovely?’
Moran smiled thinly. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘I hear you could be there a while; your solicitor is arguing that you’re insane.’
‘I don’t doubt it. People with alternate tastes are often described that way by the unenlightened.’
‘I’m sure they are. I have to admit, I’m no authority on psychopaths, but sane people don’t tend to store half-eaten male prostitutes under their floor in plastic bags.’ Turner laughed again. ‘You’ll have to speak to the loony bin about their dinner menu. Maybe they can cater for your alternate tastes if you ask nicely and...’
The bang wasn’t particularly loud, but the small explosion destroyed the front left wheel causing the prison van to brake hard and lurch sickeningly. Turner was thrown to the floor as the out-of-control vehicle left the moorland lane and careered down a banking. The van bounced twice, rolled completely and, incredibly, came to rest upright on its three remaining wheels.
‘Shit!’ snarled the guard, tumbling at Moran’s feet. ‘What the fuck was...’
The prisoner instinctively attacked. Seizing the opportunity to wrap his legs around Turner’s neck, he ignored the scratching fingers, clamped tightly and contracted his thigh muscles. He swiftly choked the guard into unconsciousness, then relaxed the strangle hold to heave the comatose body closer and search the pockets for the restraint keys.
What was that explosion? Moran glanced at the rear door. What could have happened? Had a tyre burst, or did the engine blow up?
He unlocked the waist belt and quickly released himself from the handcuffs, all the time listening for movement. Rain hammered on the metal roof of the van, but there were no other sounds coming from up front or outside. Hopefully the driver and the other guard were unconscious too, or maybe dead. If he could just open the rear door he’d be free. Turner should have the key on him.
He rummaged and found another set in the uniform pockets, one of which looked right. Realising he’d need food if he had to hide on the moors for any length of time, he snatched Turner’s arm and twisted, feeling the bone crunch in the shoulder socket. The guard screamed himself awake.
‘You might not like me,’ said Moran, ‘but I’m sure I’ll like you. I prefer younger meat, but once I manage to wrench it off, this arm should be delicious.’
Moran punched down hard to stun Turner, then turned angrily as the security door behind him swung wide. He was expecting the other prison officer from the cab, but a huge black-garbed man appeared in the opening, his bald head glistening in the torrential rain.
‘Time to go, Mister Moran.’ The gruff voice had an East European accent. ‘Come on out.’
Moran eyed him warily, stiffening to hear the whining sound of an aircraft engine starting up. He couldn’t see the helicopter in the inky darkness; its navigation and internal lights were obviously switched off.
‘This prison transport is fitted with GPS trackers,’ snapped the bald man. From the clothing, the webbing belts and machine pistol slung over his shoulder, this muscular character was probably military. ‘The authorities will know you’ve just made an unscheduled stop. We don’t have much time.’
‘What is this?’ shouted Moran, above the roar of the helicopter rotors. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sergeant Gruner.’ Rain lashing his shoulders, the soldier produced a taser from one of his belt pouches. ‘Explanations can wait. Get out here now, or we’ll drag you out.’
‘Why should I trust you? Where are you taking me?’
A fat man with a small moustache appeared from the darkness to join Gruner.
‘Good Lord!’ Moran’s eyes widened. ‘You look just like...’
The words Oliver Hardy turned into a hiss through clenched teeth as Gruner fired the taser and Moran fell unconscious to the floor. The fat man flexed his right wrist and a thin blade shot out from his jacket cuff.
‘Retract that,’ snarled Gruner. ‘You don’t need your knife here. In fact, you don’t ever use that thing unless I tell you to. Do you understand?’
His accomplice stared coldly.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ He twisted his wrist and a mechanical snap sounded as the blade vanished back into the concealed housing on his forearm.
‘Now help me carry him to the chopper.’ The Sergeant smiled and gestured to the unconscious prisoner. ‘Mister Hardy, meet your new partner, Mister Laurel.’
Chapter 3
365 taverns trade in the ancient city of York; one for every day of the year. This was a legend related by the university students. Financial recessions, or probably a more sober count-up, have lowered the figure, but over 200 can still be found. Ye Olde Starre Inne lies off Stonegate - one of the oldest streets - hidden down a snickleway, as these narrow pedestrian passages are known here. A beautiful tavern of white-painted stone, flower baskets and lanterns, many assume the twee name must be a recent creation to attract tourists, but the place was christened in the early sixteen-hundreds.
It was seven-thirty, that relatively quiet interval between the daytime crowds and the night clientele. The April evening was cool and three men sat beside the stone fireplace. An attractive black youth of nineteen, John Watson wore jeans and a denim shirt and tapped the pub table in time to the song playing quietly on the bar hi-fi. His short curly hair was hidden by the long mane and wrinkled brow of a Klingon wig and, acutely aware of his bizarre appearance, he glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone was staring. A handful of customers sat around the room, but none seemed to care that he resembled a Star Trek character. Sighing, he reached in his shirt and slipped on a pair of sunglasses in case anyone he knew should walk in.
Watson peered disdainfully through the shades at the beamed ceiling, the polished floorboards and oak-panelled bar. He preferred bright modern pubs, with music four times louder than this, and a large selection of scantily-clad girls. This archaic décor depressed him, but he knew someone who absolutely adored it. The man he worked for sat beside him and had a real love for historical buildings and this old-fashioned crap. Then again, although he appeared to be in his forties, Bernard Quist had been ar
ound for a very long time.
Watson glanced at his employer and the Starfleet badge on his black leather overcoat. Quist’s floppy dark hair framed a pleasant face, with tawny eyes and devilish eyebrows, but the youth had always been more interested in the size of his aquiline nose. He smirked as Quist took a drink of beer, the nose vanishing into the pint glass and emerging with froth on the tip. If this man ever swam the backstroke, decided Watson, it should be accompanied by the shark theme from Jaws.
The youth turned to the third man sitting with them at the inn table. Overweight and shaven-headed, Charlie Milverton guzzled lager and grinned at his new acquaintances.
‘I love this song,’ said Milverton, nodding to the hi-fi speaker. He unzipped the shoulder bag on his lap and Watson saw it was crammed with discs. ‘If you’re interested, I have pirate copies of the album.’
‘I wish I’d bumped into you before tonight’s meeting,’ said Watson. ‘No, I bought this on the morning it came out.’
‘I think everyone did,’ agreed Milverton, shrugging. ‘It ruined my sales figures.’
Quist fingered his Star Trek badge. ‘It seems a somewhat random way to make a living,’ he said, in his clipped English accent. ‘Surely you can never foresee how many DVDs and CDs you’ll sell in a week?’
‘I sell more than enough,’ said Milverton, grinning. ‘I’ve got pirates of all the latest cinema releases. Kes has just come in.’
‘Kes?’ Quist frowned. ‘The boy with the falcon? That’s decades old, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ chuckled Watson. ‘He means the remake.’
‘You’re joking?’ said Quist. ‘You’re telling me they’ve remade that Ken Loach classic?’
‘About time too,’ said Milverton. ‘Remakes are always better than the old original rubbish. Just look at Alfie, Psycho, Get Carter, Total Recall, and Robocop. I watched Kes this afternoon to make sure it’s a good copy. It was filmed in a cinema by someone pointing a phone at the screen and my customers don’t like to see too many people getting up for a piss and blocking the camera.’
‘How unreasonable,’ drawled Quist. ‘I’m sure some folk just enjoy grumbling.’
‘I hear it’s a brilliant film,’ said Watson, brushing back the long Klingon hair and leaning forward excitedly. ‘A black crack addict called Billy doesn’t fit in with the street gangs. He’s a loner and he steals a falcon to sell for a fix.’
Quist listened in disbelief.
‘That’s right,’ said Milverton. ‘The bird’s CGI, but you can’t tell. Billy decides not to sell it, and bonding with it gets him off the drugs. It’s a sad ending though. His own brother kills the falcon in a drive-by shooting.’
Quist nodded slowly. ‘Is it still set in Yorkshire?’
‘Of course not,’ said Watson. ‘This one’s in Los Angeles.’
‘Actually, I was being sarcastic.’
‘I’ll get you a copy,’ said Milverton. ‘The ones in my bag are spoken for, but I’ll be seeing you again at next week’s counselling session. Speaking of which, you two were pretty quiet there. Most of the time you just sat listening to everyone else.’ He ran his eyes over Quist’s Star Trek badge. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. What are you supposed to be?’
‘Well, I’m a Klingon, obviously,’ said Watson. He jerked a thumb at his companion. ‘He’s a werewolf.’
Quist choked on a mouthful of beer and turned aghast to the teenager.
Watson grinned. ‘Yeah, I know I’m supposed to keep it quiet, but Charlie’s okay.’
‘I love it,’ laughed Milverton. ‘So you eat people and stuff?’
Watson laughed too. ‘No, he’s what you might call a good werewolf. He’s never killed anyone, so he can control it and he doesn’t feel the blood lust.’
‘Oh, that’s brilliant.’ Milverton gulped more lager, ‘It’s the full moon soon, so he’ll be changing, I expect?’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said the youth. ‘He can change any time during the hours of darkness.’
‘Nice one!’ Milverton turned to the shocked Quist. ‘So will I become a werewolf too if you bite me?’
‘That’s right.’ Watson nodded. ‘He bit a guy last Christmas and he’s one now.’
‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Quist, massaging the bridge of his large nose. He watched disdainfully as the teenager opened a crisp packet with a black pocket knife. ‘Hey, it’s a good thing you carry that,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘It’s almost impossible to get into a pub snack without a special forces knife. Just look at all those different tools. What’s the spike with the hole in it used for? Removing Boy Scouts from horse hooves?’
‘It’s for mending sails,’ said Watson, missing the sarcasm by a mile.
‘Right. That’ll get plenty of use then.’
The pub music ended and Quist cringed as the barmaid pressed the hi-fi replay button. He was aware of this mediocre female artist, the music world’s current flavour-of-the-month, and he was tired of hearing her second-rate songs. This wonderful old tavern should be playing Vivaldi.
‘This wouldn’t harm him.’ Watson showed Milverton his knife blade. ‘Only silver and fire can kill him. Oh, and chopping his head off would probably do the trick. You should hear him yelp if you touch him with something silver.’
Milverton chuckled knowingly. ‘But only when the Social are around, eh?’
‘That’s right,’ said Quist, glaring at Watson. ‘This nonsense is all for the Social Services.’
‘I’ll give you a tip.’ Milverton lowered his voice. ‘Don’t go too far with that. The therapist who hosted our counselling meeting isn’t stupid. He can spot if you’re faking and he’ll get your benefits stopped. I’m supposed to have been clinically depressed and a little crazy for three years and no one realises it’s bullshit because I keep it low-key. I’ve pretended to take an overdose, but that’s as far as I’ve pushed it. The trick is not to appear too crazy because you might get yourself sectioned.’
‘Good advice,’ said Watson, winking at Quist. ‘You need to stop that howling at the moon bollocks. A straightjacket wouldn’t suit you.’
Milverton swigged down his lager. ‘Anyway, thanks for the drink, but I have to unload these DVDs down at the club and then I’m off to the airport. I’m working as a taxi in the free car the Social gave me for being disabled with depression.’ He smirked at Quist and patted his shoulder bag. ‘Do you fancy a film before I go? Maybe something risqué like Debbie Does Crufts? Sizzling doggy action is ideal for you werewolves, or how about Anal Albanians? Lovely economic migrants fresh from the back of the smuggler’s lorry.’
The barmaid overheard and gave the trio a dubious look as she pulled a pint. The clientele appeared to have gone downhill since Guy Fawkes drank in Ye Olde Starre Inn, and despite his fame, Fawkes was technically a terrorist.
‘Tempting, but no.’ Quist smiled tightly. ‘I’m watching a documentary about Stravinsky tonight.’
‘Oh well.’ Milverton headed for the door. ‘Have fun on the full moon and I’ll see you at the next meeting.’
‘What a creature,’ said Quist, watching him leave and shaking his head. ‘It will be a real pleasure to see him prosecuted.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Watson, ‘but what a brilliant way to screw the system. Pretend you’re depressed and a bit bonkers. You don’t have to fake a limp or wear a surgical neck brace. All you need do is talk crazy when you speak to someone in authority.’
‘Speaking of which, what the hell was all that?’ snarled Quist. ‘You told Milverton everything about me.’
‘Yeah, like he believed me,’ snorted Watson. ‘As if anyone would believe it. You’re supposed to be scamming the Social, pretending to be loony like me.’
The private detective unclipped the Star Trek badge from his lapel, removed the tiny microphone on the r
ear and took out his concealed recorder, rewinding the conversation to the point before werewolves were mentioned. ‘I was supposed to be a starship captain and you think you’re a Klingon. If you intend to change the plan, you could at least warn me.’
The teenager laughed. ‘Yeah, sorry about that, Guv.’
‘And remove those sunglasses. You look ridiculous in here.’
‘You mean this shit doesn’t?’ Watson pulled off the Klingon wig. ‘These designer shades are brilliant. Rex gave me them, along with the special forces knife.’
‘Yes, and you look just as stupid as he does when he wears them indoors.’ Quist erased the wolf talk, pocketed the recorder and picked up the black pocket knife to examine it. Their friend Rex Grant had given it away when he abandoned the ridiculous idea of joining the SAS. ‘You are aware that this isn’t special forces issue? Some company made it to cash in on the weirder elements of society. The sort who drool over Soldier of Fortune magazine.’
‘Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?’ Once again, Watson missed the irony. ‘And how can anyone look stupid wearing Jo Milan designer sunglasses outdoors or in? They cost Rex the best part of a grand.’
‘You even mentioned Rex, for God’s sake.’
‘I didn’t mention his name; just that you bit him. Speaking of which, how’s it going with him and the werewolf thing?’
‘Watson,’ hissed the detective, ‘I wonder if you keep your voice down? If it isn’t too much trouble, of course?’
‘You’re scared someone might overhear that you’re a wolf and over two-hundred years old? We’re a couple of mental cases, remember?’
‘I prefer discretion, said Quist. ‘The fewer people who are aware of my lycanthropy, the better. Come along. Let’s get some fresh air. After listening to Milverton, I need it.’
‘Fresh air and a cigarette too, I imagine?’ said Watson.
Chapter 4