by Ian Jarvis
Some of the faces were ferocious, some looked comical, but the majority were demonic and frightening. Bernard Quist drew on his cigarette and peered up at York Minster, knowing he could gaze at these ornamental stone heads every day and still find one he’d never noticed. Most people referred to them all by the same name, but only the ones that formed rainwater spouts were gargoyles. The others were known as grotesques, and Quist never tired of studying these ancient carvings on the medieval cathedral.
‘Beautiful beyond words,’ murmured the private investigator, or consultant detective, as he insisted upon referring to himself. ‘How incongruous that this architectural masterpiece was created by the same species who manufactured those abysmal DVDs - the horrendous films sold by that benefit cheat.’
Watson smirked at how flowery this sounded. He’d been working as the detective’s assistant for six months, but sometimes he still found Quist’s genteel English accent and cultured mannerisms comical. He had to concede, for a terrifying supernatural monster, his boss was quite urbane and eloquent.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he said, checking his phone texts. ‘It’s a big church.’
‘I suppose some might describe Europe’s largest Gothic cathedral in that way.’ Quist nodded. ‘Some idiots, at any rate.’
Bathed by golden floodlights, the ethereal limestone bulk soared over two-hundred feet above the surrounding rooftops. White and gleaming by day, the twin western towers could be seen for over forty miles, rising from the Plain of York like a gigantic fairy-tale palace. Quist had paused with Watson in Precentor’s Court, the expanse of cobblestones at the western end of the Minster nave. Spring had been pleasant so far and the trees in the square were covered in a froth of creamy blossom.
The detective loved this ancient city and the wealth of physical history that had been left behind by the Romans, the Vikings, the Elizabethans and the countless others who had called this their home. They had just walked along the street named Stonegate and only a few feet beneath the cobbles ran the Via Praetoria, the original Roman road that led to the basilica in the Roman fortress. Both Severus and Constantine travelled this route with the Sixth Legion, most of the soldiers wishing they could leave the freezing rains of northern England and return to the Italian warmth to reacquaint themselves with their testicles. Quist smiled to himself and raised his eyes above the Minster towers as the silvery clouds parted and a familiar yellow globe appeared.
‘The full moon,’ said Watson, grinning. ‘I’d better watch myself, eh?’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about, as you well know,’ said Quist. ‘Besides, it isn’t quite full until tomorrow.’
A shooting star zipped across the sky and Watson toyed with the idea of making a wish. Stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets, he wished he hadn’t left his jacket in his employer’s car.
‘Rex Grant, however, is another matter entirely,’ said Quist. He inhaled cigarette smoke and gazed at the Minster’s Great West Window. The central stained glass was held in place by stone tracery in the shape of an enormous heart: the Heart of Yorkshire, as it was traditionally known. ‘Although I can shapeshift any time between sunset and sunrise, I never transform at this time of the month if I can help it. I’ve advised Rex to do the same. It’s easier for me, as I’ve had so long to get used to the dark urges.’
‘1790, wasn’t it?’
‘Indeed it was. The bestial impulses are still very new and alien to Rex.’
‘So how’s it going with him?’
‘As you’re aware, I’ve made sure I’m always with him during this lunar phase. I watch and monitor his behaviour and I’ll continue until I’m certain he can cope with the impulses. He tends to get a little irrational and hot-headed, but nothing too bad. I point out any mood swings and help him to calm himself.’
The youth nodded. ‘I can sympathise. I live with my mum and she goes a little crackers every month too. The trick is to get out of the house, or walk on eggshells and not point out how loopy women are when...’
‘Your understanding and compassion are to be commended, Watson, but Rex’s condition is somewhat more dangerous. That’s the main reason we’re going to London for his birthday this Thursday.’
‘Main reason? You’re obviously forgetting the free booze and all those models and minor celebrities he’ll invite to the party. I don’t do too badly with the girls, but Rex is something else. He has a constant string of top birds lining up to jump into his bed.’
‘The lycanthropy will attract them,’ said Quist. ‘Females subliminally sense the wolf. The aura of supernatural darkness adds to his charisma, but as I understand it, he was very much the playboy before this. The girls he goes for all tend to be the same, however: quite beautiful, but amazingly thick.’
‘Exactly. What more could you want?’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer someone you could converse with after sex?’
‘Why?’ Watson looked puzzled. ‘So you don’t regret what you did, Guv?’
‘Biting him was the only way to save his life,’ said Quist. ‘Rex may appear superficial, conceited and thoughtless, but he’s a good person at heart. As with many similar people, the loud arrogance, open chauvinism and glibness are a subconscious attempt to conceal their lack of intelligence.’
‘I have news for him - it doesn’t work.’
‘The thing is, I’m now responsible for Rex.’ Wrapping the lengthy leather overcoat around himself, the detective turned to stroll along High Petergate, a medieval thoroughfare of Tudor buildings that leads to Bootham Bar. ‘I’ve never done this before and we’re learning together. Like me, he’s on a vegan diet and I’ve taught him a few helpful techniques. I’ve also given him a series of exercises and meditations to settle his mind and keep him, shall we say human.’
With its portcullis and arrow-slit windows, Bootham Bar was the oldest of the fortified gateways that allowed passage into the city through the perimeter wall. Taking its name from this fourteenth-century tower, and once the primary route to Scotland, the tree-lined street of Bootham runs north from the barbican. They followed it a short way to where the group therapy meeting had taken place earlier. Owned by the York Social Services, the office was situated on the second floor of a large house, above a girl who practised homeopathic medicine in her incense-fogged surgery. Quist knew plenty about alternative medicine and also that treating ailments with tap water didn’t work.
‘It’s good to hear that Rex is handling this okay,’ said Watson, heading for Quist’s car. ‘So you’re driving us to London on Thursday and we’re staying over after the birthday party at his place in Hampstead?’
‘Yes, he gets back from Edinburgh tomorrow.’ Quist winced slightly. ‘I shudder to speculate what a Rex Grant party will be like.’
Watson smiled to himself. Quist had never been one for the party scene, but since employing his teenage assistant, he’d emerged from his introverted shell a little. It would be interesting to see him in the company of the kind of girls Rex fooled around with. It would be even more interesting to be in their company himself.
He watched Quist unlock the car, a metallic grey Ford. Watson had often laughed about the detective’s boring motors, but Quist claimed nondescript vehicles were essential in private investigations. The youth had to grudgingly admit he was probably right. The kind of souped-up monstrosity he’d have chosen might not be ideal for discreetly following people.
‘That mobile phone you bought...’ Watson jumped into the passenger seat and gestured to the night sky through the windscreen. ‘Did you know you can get a free App? It tells you all the phases of the moon and when it’s going to be full.’
Quist gave a dry laugh. ‘I’m the last person to need that. The lupine urges tell me exactly when it’s due. The full moon lasts three days and, during that phase, the impulses come and go in daylight too. The vegan diet and yoga exercises keep things i
n check. I’ve also perfected a mental technique that can be used in times of high stress. I concentrate on The Young Prince and The Young Princess from Scheherazade.’
Watson stared as if he’d begun to speak Japanese.
‘A beautiful piece of music by Rimsky-Korsakov. I banish all thoughts and fixate instead upon the melody in my head.’
‘Have you taught Rex the trick? Do you have him concentrate on this Sherry Hazard tune...’
‘The secret is to use music that’s personal to you.’ Quist started the car. ‘His is somewhat different. It’s special to him, from a time in his youth when he felt happy and content.’
‘What is it?’
Quist looked evasive. ‘It’s unusual, but it appears to work.’
‘So what is it?’
‘No. It’s personal and you’d mock him. You trade insults and bicker like childish idiots when you’re together.’
‘Ah, it sounds to me like he’s picked a really crap song.’ Watson smirked. ‘Okay, it’s obvious you see this as some doctor and patient confidentiality thing, so you don’t have to actually tell me. I’ll list some shit and you cough if I get it. Agadoo by Black Lace. Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow...’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ sighed the detective. ‘His peculiar choice doesn’t surprise me. As we know, he’s a rather odd character and...’
‘Thick as pigshit?’
‘You have the subtle vocabulary of a diplomat. I was about to say mildly eccentric. Rex is still wearing black clothing and sunglasses all the time. He seems to like his er, change in circumstances a little too much and that concerns me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was frightened and hated the lycanthropy to begin with.’ Quist pulled away from the kerb and drove along Bootham. ‘Once he grew accustomed to the reality of his new life, he began to embrace it. Rather too much, if I’m being honest. It isn’t normal.’
‘Brilliant, Guv.’ Watson laughed. ‘You’re talking about him being a werewolf and you use the word normal.’
Chapter 5
Normal wasn’t a word that sprang to mind when acquaintances were describing Rex Grant. His behaviour had always been unconventional, even before he became a supernatural creature of the night.
Not the brightest of young men, Rex exuded the extrovert self-assurance seen in many dim people who are fortunate to have both striking good looks and a shit load of money. The knowledge that only silver, fire and decapitation could harm him had boosted this genial arrogance. April was colder in Scotland than London and he wore a black leather jacket, black jeans and a black silk shirt, all bearing overpriced designer labels that fashion slaves would kill to possess. He’d taken to dressing in chic black clothes during his futile attempt to join the SAS, inexplicably believing this image would help. It was eight o’clock in the evening, but the dark didn’t prevent Rex from completing his outfit with a pair of expensive sunglasses, which instantly transformed his appearance from fairly cool to farcical.
The special forces pipedream had ended abruptly last Christmas when Bernard Quist saved his mortally wounded friend with a supernatural wolf bite. Rex had to admit, he enjoyed unexpected gifts, but as surprise Christmas presents went, this would take some beating. Over the months, his original fear and misgivings at becoming a werewolf had gradually turned to acceptance and then excitement. His toned twenty-five year old body was stronger, his senses had been augmented and his recuperative powers were truly phenomenal. Sniffly colds, tummy bugs and other ailments no longer affected him, and he could drive fast cars like an idiot, safe in the knowledge that a steering column through the torso would ultimately be as harmful as a bee sting. He’d continued with the stylish black attire and the sunglasses, now believing this to be the ideal look for someone with a cool paranormal secret.
Rex sat in the passenger seat of Charlotte Michie’s Mini Clubman, gazing at the brightly-lit buildings of the Scottish capital as the young redhead drove along Princes Street. The city was busy for a Tuesday evening and he peered up at the Balmoral where he was staying. The palatial neo-Gothic hotel dominated this main thoroughfare.
‘I have to admit, I really like Edinburgh,’ he said. ‘What do you Scots call it? Bald Freaky?’
‘Auld Reekie,’ laughed Charlotte, pulling up at the traffic lights. ‘It means Old Smoky. Balmoral means majestic dwelling and your hotel certainly lives up to the name, doesn’t it? The Victorians built it as a railway hotel in the Scottish baronial style. The huge clock on the tower up there was always set three minutes fast so guests didn’t miss their train. You used to be able to take a lift from the platform in Waverley Station straight up into your hotel lobby.’
‘Hey, you know your stuff, don’t you?’
‘That’ll be why Gordon picked me to be your guide.’
Rex had flown up from London to finalise a deal with the McNulty Caledonian building company and, rather than hire a car, Charlotte, one of the assistants, had been given the job of chauffeuring him around. They’d driven to the Leith waterfront, where Grant Homes were to build their housing development, and then to McNulty’s offices to sort out the paperwork. The business was now complete and this evening city tour had been Charlotte’s idea. Rex might be brash, chauvinistic and a little dumb, but he was a likeable character with an infectious sense of fun. His short black hair, blue eyes and white teeth reminded her of a young Tom Cruise and a couple of times she’d found herself absentmindedly humming the Top Gun movie theme.
‘So, you’re flying home in the morning,’ she said. ‘I expect we’ll be seeing more of you when Grant Homes expands north?’
‘I imagine so,’ said Rex. ‘My father plans to build in Edinburgh and Glasgow before branching out to other towns.’
‘How long have you known my boss Gordon?’
‘Gordon McNulty’s a family friend; he’s been hunting with my Uncle Rupert for years. I hear Gordon has electric radiators, Wi-Fi and music installed in the shooting butts on his grouse moors. Apparently, they shoot the birds to Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyrie.’
‘Yes, Gordon loves his hunting and shooting.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘You millionaires are all alike. You all seem to get off on golf and killing animals.’
‘Well, I dislike both and technically I’m not a millionaire. The family wealth comes from the housing company, plus various investments over the decades, but I can’t just dip into the accounts. I have to live on a monthly allowance. If I want a Ferrari or something, I have to go cap-in-hand to my father.’
‘Poor you. No one should have to live in such harsh conditions.’
‘Mind you, the allowance is pretty generous.’ He gave a sexy wink. ‘I’m still very much the eligible bachelor.’
‘Eligible to some. For me, your gender gets in the way.’
‘Whatever.’ Rex smirked. Charlotte claimed to be gay, but he’d decided he might cure her of that nonsense before the night was over. In Goldfinger, 007 had cured Pussy Galore with a few judo throws and a manly kiss, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. He pointed to the illuminated baroque tower soaring two-hundred feet above them. ‘Hey, what’s this thing? It looks like a stone rocket.’
‘That’s our famous Scott Monument.’
‘Oh right. Terry Scott, the first guy to make it to the North Pole. You lot must be proud that a Scotsman beat that German Anderson.’
‘Er...’ Charlotte glanced at him, wondering if this was a joke, but apparently it wasn’t. ‘No, Sir Walter Scott, the writer. You know - Ivanhoe and all the old classics.’
‘Ugh! Books.’ Rex pulled a face. ‘I’m not really into books and especially not classics like Withering Heights and Pride and Pregnancy.’
‘You told me you studied at Cambridge. I take it you didn’t major in English?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t major in anything. When you have milli
onaire parents and that huge allowance I mentioned, you don’t need to study too hard.’
Rex and his brother Raoul were the heirs to Grant Homes, but Rex had never wanted anything to do with the family company. He’d prolonged university to avoid this, his main interests being young women, fast cars and nightlife, and he’d only begun working for his father very recently, after his ludicrous dreams of joining the military fell through.
Charlotte drove past the Royal Scottish Academy and Rex saw the vast expanse of Princes Street Gardens appearing on their left. He looked across the parkland to Edinburgh Castle, an illuminated cluster of granite ramparts and sixteenth-century buildings seated atop a huge volcanic plug. It was difficult to distinguish where the black crag ended and the fortifications began; the stronghold appeared to be growing from the basalt. Swirls of silvery cloud framed the castle and a large yellow moon was rising, beginning its slow ascent over the Palace of Holyrood to add to the fairy tale tableau. The moon would be full tomorrow and Rex recalled Bernie Quist’s warnings about this time of the month, almost as if lycanthropic tampons were necessary. Over the next three days, the dark bestial urges were supposedly difficult to control and the private detective had made a point of baby-sitting him on every full moon since his transformation. Yeah, like he couldn’t handle such things by himself. Quist even claimed the impulses affected werewolf behaviour during daylight too, which was obviously nonsense.
Charlotte turned left up Lothian Road and left again along King’s Stables Road, the route winding around the base of the castle crag and into Edinburgh’s atmospheric Old Town. She gestured to a statue of a little dog sitting on a roadside plinth.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Another of our famous sights for you. There’s Greyfriars Bobby.’
‘Oh right.’ Rex gave a dry laugh. ‘The dog who’s famous just because his geriatric owner died.’
‘I see I’m chauffering a sensitive soul.’ Charlotte cruised along George IV Bridge. ‘And here we have the Royal Mile,’ she announced, jokingly adopting the voice of a tour guide. ‘This was once the busiest street in Europe. The gentry lived here before the eighteen-hundreds, but once the New Town was built north of Princes Street, they abandoned these tenements to decay into an overcrowded slum. It’s changed quite a bit, as you can see. The visitors love it.’