Powerless

by Catherine Johnson

  Fuckin’ unbelievable that it even came down tae this. That waste o’ fur should’ve been put down the moment he was turned. Evil fucker as a human, worse as a wolf. It should’ve been a lesson learned for him. He chose the wrong guy tae pick a fight with. One minute he’s pissed, thinkin’ he’s all that, the next he’s on his arse havin’ his throat torn out. That should’ve been the end o’ it, but it wasn’t. Strong bastard that he is, he survived; but what he became was worse than what he’d been.

  We knew we were in for shite when the London pack asked us tae take him. They’ve got some o’ the strongest discipline, since they’re stuck in the middle o’ city hell. They’ve got tae travel so far for a run that they doona often bother, they prefer tae keep tae the back streets and the alleys o’ the city, but that means keepin’ the pack tight. Everyone’s got tae be on the same page. No wanderin’ off maulin’ innocent lasses who should know better than tae walk home alone. Even I doona know how he managed tae get them tae agree tae a transfer tae save his miserable hide, but he did, and then he was our problem.

  The idea bein’, that if they couldn’t control him in the streets, then he’d burn off his demons with regular runs. Turns out it wasnae as simple as that. Turns out he’s just an evil fuck who gets his kicks hurtin’ women. If that night had turned out any differently I wouldnae be here. I keep asking myself if I should’ve let him get on with it, kept ma nose out until he was done. Sure the wee lass’d be dead, but then we could’ve hidden the body and I could’ve dealt with the fucker and put an end tae him once and for all. Somethin’ stopped me though. Had to be the fuckin’ hero didn’t I? Just went divin’ in and hauled him off. That decision just opened one big can of fuckin’ worms for us. There wasnae any way we could look after her, even with the medical knowledge we have in the pack. Those wounds needed care and proper attention. There wasnae any point stoppin’ him if I was just goin’ tae let her die somewhere else. If she’d’ve died in hospital they’d’ve been lookin’ for someone, but she fuckin’ lived. Because o’ me she fuckin’ lived. I still doona know if that makes me an idiot or no’, but I got her somewhere visible and let the relevant people know where they needed tae look.

  Becca Howarth. I didnae even know her name ‘til I was in the courtroom. First order o’ business was takin’ that bastard back tae the one who’d been “minding” him. I’ve no proof o’ that, but that idiot was too fuckin’ stupid tae clear up after himself, and wasnae any way that was his first dance since he’d moved to our pack. Someone had been helpin’ him get rid o’ the evidence. There wasnae the time tae deal with things as they should’ve been, and the rest o’ the pack wasnae strong enough for that. We had tae give the coppers somethin’ before they launched a bloody man hunt. We couldnae’ve had it all over the telly and the papers, people lookin’ for the beast of Manchester now. Fuck knows what they’d’ve found! The only thing I could do was make sure I got the promise that that dickhead would be taken care o’ in the proper manner ‘fore I turned maself in. It was never really a choice, I was always the only one who would’ve been able tae do this.

  I’ve been a wolf goin’ on thirty five years myself. There’s another lesson there somewhere, about what sort o’ shite a fifteen year old lad can get in tae in the Gorbals. Aye, I was born and raised in the arsehole of Glasgow. Nothin’ tae do for a lad there, wasn’t any honest work for grown men, let alone a wee scrapper. Took tae runnin’ with the local lads, makin’ cash anyway I could. God knows with nine o’ us tae feed it was hard enough for ma mam and da’ without any o’ us bein’ lazy arses and coastin’ on the apron strings.

  There’s some big packs up in Scotland though, all that room. There’s a lot o’ competition, a lot o’ politics a lot o’ opportunity for bigger wolves tae rip the throats out o’ new guys, just tae make sure they’re no’ challenged. And it was clear early on that I was going tae be a challenger. Had ma fair share o’ fights, and got the scars tae shows for ma efforts. I decided I couldnae be arsed with all the shite that came from bein’ high up in the pack there. The constant fightin’ and arse lickin’, bitchin’ and backstabbin’. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, so I moved south. Came up on this wee town. It’s no’ a bad place. The moors remind me a little o’ the Highlands, although they’re no’ so wild or so big. There’s plenty o’ work too, honest work. I managed tae make a decent life here; right up until the old alpha died, and then it all started tae go tae shit again.

  William was a nice fella, couldnae fault the guy. He led the pack well, kept everyone in line and under the radar. The pack was only a little smaller then, ‘bout fifteen o’ us. The auld fella had been doin’ well, right up ‘till he turned ninety, then overnight it was like someone had turned the lights off in his head. Every day there was somethin’ else he’d forgotten; names, conversations, appointments. He started goin’ missin’ from his house. He was a healthy lookin’ fella. He might’ve been ninety, but he passed for seventy any day o’ the week, so his neighbours weren’t all that worried. He looked like a strong old dog. But a couple of times he’d arranged for pack members tae come round, then he’d forgotten and gone on a wander instead. That’s when the alarms started goin’ off. We’d find him up on the moors just roamin’ around. We were no’ too worried, but then we heard about someone botherin’ livestock. It turned out tae be William chasin’ sheep. He was doin’ it in human form, but normal people, normal werewolves, don’t go leggin’ it around after bloody sheep in the middle o’ the day.

  When we started tae find him wanderin’ the streets in his pyjamas we couldnae pretend any more that it hadnae gone too far. Everyone put his bizarre behaviour down to what it was, dementia, but we, the pack, knew that we had tae end it before he started talkin’, before he started tellin’ everyone he met that he loved the moon. We couldnae trust him any more. Poor bastard. Everyone knew he was goin’ wanderin’ all the time, it had gotten so his neighbours had the phone numbers for a couple o’ the pack. O’ course they didnae know they were pack, just thought they were family, nieces and nephews or some such. We waited as long as we could, until winter, until one day he went a’wanderin’. We ended him up there on the moors, made it look like he’d died o’ a heart attack, brought on by the cold weather and him no’ wearin’ anythin’ right for walkin’ around up there. His neighbours called us tae go lookin’ for him before they called the authorities, and we arranged for one o’ the pack tae pose as a rambler and report findin’ a body. By the time the coppers got anythin’ like close tae him there was nothin’ that would’ve suggested foul play, and the lad got the decent burial he deserved.

  That’s when the shite really hit the fan. Daniel’s never been ma greatest fan, but sure we put up with each other for the good o’ the pack. But then it came time tae figure out a new Alpha, and I’d rather’ve been fucked for a month o’ Sundays before I let that wanker lead me anywhere. He’s only got ten years on me, and only five as a wolf, but he wasnae best impressed with a ‘young pup’, as he called it, gettin’ above himself. He thought he should’ve had the top spot automatically. I had tae fight him for it, and I had tae put him down hard so he’d know just who was in charge. He never fuckin’ let it go after that. There was always tension. And then we got landed with that cockney gobshite. Straight away, him and Daniel were thick as bloody thieves. I never could relax then, I knew I had tae watch ma back. But what happened that night, what had been happenin’ for a damn site too long before that, was a step too far and Daniel bloody knew it. It took some arguin’, but eventually I got the promise I needed that he’d put the rabid fuck down whilst I kept the pack from under the microscope.

  I wouldnae say I’ve been alive in here. I’ve existed; it’s been as much as that and no more. There’s no’ any privacy here. The cells are tiny, a set o’ bunk beds that almost pushes up against a two-seater bench. I refuse tae call somethin’ that uncomfy a sofa. It takes a while tae get the knack o’ gettin’ up from it without knockin’ your head on the cabinet fixed tae the only
spare bit o’ wall above it. There’s a sink on the wall at one end o’ the bench. You have tae turn sideways tae walk between that and the beds, and it’s only a couple o’ steps ‘til you hit the cabinet under the hole in the wall, sorry, window. We split the cupboard between us tae stow what gear we have. The guy I’m roomin’ with is golden. He’s in for manslaughter, guilty as charged m’lud, but he’s on the same page as me. We play the game, keep our head down, don’t cause shite and just get on with our time. We don’t take any bollocks off anyone, but we make damn sure we’re no’ seen when we put any wanker in his place. We’ve qualified for a telly by bein’ good little convicts. It passes the time well enough, better than starin’ at a bloody wall.

  Each day’s about twelve hours long. They had out your breakfast, wrapped up like what you get on a plane, the night before. It saves ‘em havin’ tae deal with a shite load o’ hungry lags first thing in a mornin’. If you qualify, your cell gets unlocked at half seven. I’m in the gym for eight and I stay there ‘till we have tae go back tae the cells for lunch. You’re locked down while you eat. Just before two they let us out again. If I’m on shift ma arse is in the laundry, if no’ I’m back in the gym. I’m a spark, an electrician, by trade; plenty o’ work, and I stay self-employed. At least I doona have tae worry about ma record givin’ me grief on the outside. After a couple o’ hours it’s back tae the cells for tea, then they let us out for ‘association’. It’s more like aimless wanderin’ and maybe a game o’ pool if there isnae a gang o’ wankers on the table. Even in here I’m no’ so hard up for entertainment that I want tae start a brawl for a game o’ shots. We’re only out for about an hour anyway before we’re back in our cells, and soon enough it’s onto the next day.

  God bless Her Majesty’s Government for no’ havin’ the balls tae build more prisons. Overcrowdings a hell o’ an issue, a big enough issue that they’re letting folk out early for good behaviour all the time, even those o’ us they considered dangerous enough tae put away for a decent stretch. So six months ahead o’ time I’ll be back on those wee moors and I cannae wait. I’m goin’ tae howl at the moon ‘till ma throat’s sore and run ‘till ma paws fall off.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Another day another dollar’ they say. Thank the sweet Lord in heaven it’s Friday I say. Some Fridays, one or both of us stay in the city with our colleagues for drinks, but tonight neither of us can be bothered, so it’s a wine and take away night. It’s been a fairly average couple of weeks since the last full moon. Rob’s been working late a lot, some big account apparently. He’s been eating at the office, so by the time he gets home, I’ve been pretty much ready for bed. It feels like we’ve hardly seen each other. I’m not about to start whinging, though; usually when there’s an account that requires this much work there’s a healthy bonus that goes with it. So I’ve been spending my evenings planning holidays. I’ve not been subtle, there are brochures scattered all over the house.

  Curry eaten, pots washed, we’ve just settled down with our first glasses of wine when there’s a knock at the door. Rob and I shoot each other quizzical looks before he gets up to open it. No, we can’t smell who’s on the other side of a well fitted UPVC door. Once the door’s open, though, I know who it is before I see them. What on earth is Michael doing here, on his own, at this time?

  “Hey, come in. Glass of wine? We’ve just sat down.”

  “No thanks, mate, I’m here to see Becca.”

  My spidey senses are tingling. Why hasn’t Rob asked Michael what he’s doing here? Why doesn’t he sound surprised to see him? Big, loud alarms start going off in my head when Michael walks into the living room; he’s got a very serious look on his face. For someone who smiles as much as Michael does, that is not a good thing.

  “Hey Becca, got a few?”

  I’m dressed in my scruffy clothes, leggings and a hoodie, holding a full glass of red; it’s obvious that I’m not about to go out for a couple of hours, but something in Michael’s expression kills the sarcasm on my tongue.

  “Always for you love, what’s up?”

  We’ve got a three-seater sofa and a recliner chair; both are pointed at the TV. Rob usually takes the chair, Michael’s known us long enough, been here often enough, that he knows that. Since I’m curled into my usual spot at the end of the sofa furthest from the door, he perches at the other end. It’s not like Michael to perch, not here. He, Donna and the kids are regular visitors. We even have bunk beds set up in our spare room for the kids to stay over on the odd occasion that Donna and Michael have a date night. Rob and I keep a change of clothes at their house now, after all the nights we spent drinking to the point of no return and waking up in their spare bed in last night’s outfits.

  Michael turned forty this year, but he’s greying prematurely. Usually it looks good on him, but tonight he looks tired, tonight he looks old.

  He takes a deep breath, looks me right in the eyes and just launches right in. “Becca, Callum’s being released early. Partly for good behaviour, partly because they need the space. Either way, he’ll be out in a week. He’ll be out in time for the full moon.”

  I think I’ve just managed to hit a brick wall without even moving an inch. I have no idea what expression is on my face. At least I didn’t drop my wine, that’s good; I’m going to need it. How do I feel about this? I have to say, I’m not sure. Of course I’ve been well aware of the fact that he’s been in a prison right in the city. I could walk to that place from my office and back in my lunch hour. The old ventilation tower with its Victorian brickwork is a major feature of the city skyline, but it’s something I’ve deliberately tried not to dwell on.

  I don’t remember him. I don’t remember his face from the attack; it was so dark, and I only had human-strength vision at the time. He turned himself in. I wasn’t required to attend his initial hearing, and since he pleaded guilty, I wasn’t called to give any testimony. From the moment he walked into that police station and gave himself up, he was kept in custody until he was sentenced just over a month later. I literally have no idea what the man looks like. My case never even made the press. If anyone in the pack ever had a photo of him, they’ve put them away, and no one talks about him, ever. It’s hard to make a bogeyman of someone who doesn’t exist.

  I can’t even say being a werewolf is all that bad. I mean, I’m healthier than I was ever going to manage to be as purely human, if you overlook the chance that I’ll go nuts in my old age. Yes I have to change into an animal once a month, but apart from the fact that I have to turn down the odd invitation for a night out clubbing, it’s hardly onerous. I have better senses now; okay, that can be a bit of a curse sometimes, but mostly it isn’t. Sure I can’t wear perfume anymore because it’s like walking around with my eyes shut, but I get to run on the moors in the moonlight, really run. Once a month I get to throw everything off, all the stress and angst that comes as part and parcel of being a working thirty year old, and I get to just ‘be’ in the most exhilarating way that before I changed I never knew was even remotely possible.

  Becoming a werewolf meant I found Rob. We’ve been together almost five years. It might not be a mate bond, but it’s about as much as I could ever have hoped for from a full human relationship. He’s considerate, funny and supportive. He has spirit, intelligence and drive, and yes he’s easy on the eye and the sex is well, mind your own business! We fit together well, most of the time. We have arguments like any couple, but so do Donna and Michael; being mates doesn’t mean you don’t irritate each other or fight now and then.

  Okay, okay, I’m sure you get the idea. I’m not about to add Callum Lennox to my Christmas card list. The nightmares are a vibrant, if infrequent, reminder of the terror and powerlessness I felt that night. If I stop to think about it, I feel a chill to my bones from the hopelessness, knowing that something very painful and very terrible was about to happen to me and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. Every time I look in the mirror and see the scars that trail over my c
ollar bone and down the side of my left breast I’m reminded of what that man intended to do to me before my mysterious saviour intervened; but I don’t have a face for my demon, just a name, and the name holds no power over me.

  How do I feel about Callum Lennox being released? I simply have no idea.

  I take a long drink of my wine. I feel like my hand should be shaking, but it isn’t. Should I be falling apart? I’m quite proud that I’m not.

  “Does Daniel know?” I ask Michael.

  “Yes.” Heavy sigh. Not good. “He wants Callum brought back into the pack, at least at first.”

  I hadn’t expected that. I knew that one day he would be released, but I never expected that I would have to socialise with him. I hadn’t exactly given a lot of thought to how this day would go when it came; but finding out that he would be brought into the pack, that I would be able to feel him, that I would see him as an animal, that hadn’t occurred to me.