Nightfall Berlin

by Jack Grimwood

  ‘Hello Charlie,’ she said.

  105

  It wasn’t revenge for Charlie’s death that Tom wanted. The word was too small, too personal. He wanted fire in the skies, winds that ripped apart trees and blood like rain. He wanted vengeance.

  FitzSymonds was somewhere out in the darkness. Like Tom, he’d be aware of the hovering Mi-2 Hoplite, the approaching daylight, the elite soldiers spreading out through the 400 acres of Tierpark zoo. He’d know that the sound of gunfire would draw them; that muzzle flash in the night was as good as saying, I’m here …

  He’d still have to make his move soon.

  The wire fence to the wolf run was high.

  Eight feet tall, with eighteen inches of barbed-wire-topped mesh angled inwards to make the jump harder. In case FitzSymonds needed tempting, Tom left the gates slightly open. The wolves were waiting to welcome him. Tom could hear them. They’d been howling on and off for the best part of an hour; drawing Tom closer, waiting for the idea to form in his mind.

  The new run was long and narrow, cut out of the northern edge of the park, heavily wooded and obviously only just finished. He found the wolves several hundred yards beyond the gate, out of sight behind a strand of beech trees. Four cages raised on breeze blocks. Three large cages, and a smaller one. A smoky shadow in the small cage bared its teeth as Tom drew near. Its growl low and intense, far more threatening than any howl.

  He bent to take a closer look.

  Amelia yanked him back.

  She looked horrified at Tom’s stupidity. Unless she was just appalled by his ignorance. ‘That’s a she-wolf. She has pups. Threaten her litter and she’ll take whatever bit of you she can reach.’ Amelia’s face twisted as she stared at the bars. ‘I hate to see her in a cage that small.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tom said. ‘She won’t be there for long.’

  The she-wolf stood over her litter, ready to hurl herself at the bars if Tom came any closer. He approached slowly, halting when she growled. He was shocked by how big she was. How hot her gaze.

  ‘Don’t stare her out,’ Amelia warned. ‘You’ll look like a threat.’

  Tom looked away, heard the growling lessen and slowly reached for the lever that controlled the door. Pulling it back, he felt the catch come free.

  ‘Wait,’ Amelia said.

  Too late, the door was already swinging open.

  Amelia was holding her breath, Tom realized. He stepped backwards, very carefully, wincing as a twig cracked underfoot. For a moment, nothing happened. And then the wolf turned a full circle, looking at her tiny cage, looking beyond the bars at the two of them. Nudging her pups to their feet, she streaked like smoke from the cage, her litter following behind.

  ‘She’s hungry,’ said Amelia.

  Those still caged watched her go. They were wide-eyed and febrile, with greyish-silver ruffs, raised silver fur along their spines. Tom could almost feel their seething anger. They wanted their freedom too.

  ‘Tom …’

  ‘Seen him.’

  FitzSymonds was silhouetted on the path. A blink later and he was gone. He appeared, shadow-like, for a second between trees, disappearing just as quickly. ‘Remind me why you don’t just shoot him?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘You’re a pacifist, remember?’

  ‘Apart from that?’ she whispered back.

  Because muzzle flare showed at night. Because the noise of a shot would call troops to the area. Because the wolves were wound tight enough already. It was nerves that had Amelia talking, nerves that made Tom reply. He felt hollowed out and empty. Until Berlin he’d have said Fitz was the closest thing he’d had to a father. How warped was that?

  The helo swept along the park’s northern edge and set the wolves howling. Then it began a looping turn to take it back over the petting zoo, lake and cafés towards the turnstiles that let the public in. The howling lessened and the wolves went back to being twisting shadows and furious darkness.

  ‘Wolves,’ Tom said. ‘What should I know?’

  Amelia laughed. It was bleak, half despairing.

  ‘Please,’ Tom said.

  ‘Not a word you use often, I imagine.’

  She looked at him, shook herself, and said, ‘Attacks are rarer than you’d think. They usually start with a feint designed to test your defences. Attacks can be broken into rabid, non-rabid, provoked and predatory.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘Don’t poke them. Avoid the hungry ones. Don’t let them get behind you. Don’t trip and start crawling around or you’ll look like prey. Wolves hunt in packs and kill their food on the run. So don’t try to outrun them. They’re twice as fast as humans and can go ten times the distance. Oh, and they can scent wounded prey from afar …’ Putting her hand to her ribs, she examined her fingers.

  Tom couldn’t see if there was fresh blood or not.

  ‘What did you do with your old shirt?’ he asked.

  ‘Still in here.’ Amelia lifted her tote bag.

  Tom held out his hand.

  ‘They’re not beagles. If you’re planning a drag hunt.’ Her words were harsh; her smile in the moonlight kinder.

  ‘I don’t approve of hunting.’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘What else should I know?’ Tom asked.

  ‘From instinct, they kill the young, the old and the injured in that order. It’s said no healthy wolf attacks a human. That depends how you define healthy. Soldiers at Stalingrad savaged by animals more starving than they might disagree.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Stand tall. Make yourself scary.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work?’

  ‘Try climbing a tree. That said, I’ve seen photographs of wolves in trees.’

  Tom looked at her.

  ‘If things get really bad,’ she said, ‘curl into a ball and protect your face.’

  106

  Three wolf cages unopened. Two with half a dozen animals in each. One with a single, mangy-looking male who limped and snarled and twitched with fury at the bars around him. Tom wondered where the beasts came from. Whether they’d been born wild. Whether they’d grown used to humans. Wolves that had grown used to humans were more likely to attack.

  The beasts were watching him.

  They glared from between their bars, hard-eyed and wide-mouthed.

  Amelia had insisted that their lolling tongues simply reflected how they breathed but it was still the stuff of nightmares. You could die here, he told himself. But then you could die anywhere. ‘I still think you should leave,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ Amelia replied firmly.

  She took the pistol though, agreed to stay close to the cages, and promised to shoot back if FitzSymonds shot at her.

  Tom regarded that as a victory of sorts.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Amelia nodded.

  Tom tugged at the lever of the next cage, its clang loud enough to ring across the clearing. A huge wolf padded forward, hesitated for a second in the doorway and then flowed into the darkness. There was no other way to describe it. The animal shimmered like tarnished quicksilver. The rest of them followed him, the last one glancing sideways, and apparently deciding that Tom and Amelia belonged there.

  In the cage beyond that, half a dozen wolves jostled, their jaws open and their tongues lolling. They tensed as Tom approached, stilling entirely when he reached for the handle. This time there was no hesitation. They knew exactly what was going to happen. Sweeping through the open doorway, they crossed the clearing and vanished into the trees. In the last cage the old wolf turned to face them.

  ‘What about him?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘I’m saving him for later.’

  Tom’s plan was to lead FitzSymonds and the wolves away from Amelia and towards the gates. Well, that was the first part; the second part involved killing Fitz, and releasing the wolves into the park to keep the spetsnaz busy.

  The wolves had other ideas.

  Tom was a quarte
r of the way to the gate when he saw the first shadow, half hidden behind trees. When he looked again it was gone. Turning, he discovered there was one on the other side, half a dozen paces away.

  He had outriders.

  When he slowed, they slowed, silent and waiting.

  When he started again, he found three where previously there had been two and they were closer than before. He increased his speed and immediately one of them howled, an answering howl coming from the trees.

  Tom stopped dead, raising his arms to make himself look bigger.

  He wanted his pistol back. At the very least, his knife.

  Shouting helped, Amelia had said, but Tom couldn’t afford to shout at the wolves. Not if it brought FitzSymonds. He would shout though, and throw stones, if that’s what it came to. He had more chance of outwitting FitzSymonds than surviving an attack by a pack of hungry wolves.

  There was a growling, and Tom spun to find a huge wolf almost right behind him. Its mouth was open and its tongue lolling. There was a fierce intensity to its gaze. Run, its stare said. You know you want to.

  It was all Tom could do not to obey.

  He backed away, while trying to keep the others in sight. He could sense, rather than see, others joining the pack. It wasn’t quite a hunt, not yet. Keeping his eyes on the biggest, Tom stepped back again, and then again.

  He must be halfway to the gate.

  FitzSymonds could be right behind him.

  Tom turned to check no one was there and immediately the wolf crept closer. When he turned to face it, it slunk away. When he took a step backwards, the wolves began following again.

  His was a slow, agonizing retreat.

  Every so often the wind would shift and he’d catch the stink of them. The smell was musty, stronger than he’d expected. Around him, eyes flared in the half-dark and shadows swirled. They slunk in and out of the trees, sometimes there, sometimes vanishing. Always he could feel their presence.

  The wolves wanted him to run.

  They were frustrated by his refusal.

  How could they be certain he was prey if he wouldn’t run?

  And then, with a moon half behind cloud, and the helo beginning another sweep over the northern edge of the park, the rules changed. Far behind them all, the old wolf still in its cage howled, and the pack stilled, listening intently.

  The largest called in reply, and the pack raced ahead, leaving Tom behind them. It was only when Tom reached open ground at the run’s end that he realized they hadn’t escaped into the park as he’d hoped.

  They were blocking his way to the gate.

  Wolves and human faced each other and for a moment nobody moved.

  Away to one side, the helicopter was hovering, its searchlight stabbing the ground at every movement. Wild sheep, most probably. Tom tried to remember what else he and Amelia had released on their way through. Didn’t matter really. As long as the freed animals kept the helicopter and the spetsnaz busy.

  When Tom stepped forward, the largest wolf bared its teeth.

  When he took another step, it growled. That was the signal for the rest to do the same. Between them, lips curled and growling, they began driving Tom back towards the trees he’d just left.

  At first, he tried to stand his ground, but fell back when they began to encircle him. Don’t let them get behind you. Hanging Amelia’s bloody shirt on a nearby bush as a diversion, Tom put his back to the oak a few yards behind it, grabbed a broken branch to use as a club and waited.

  Although the largest of them wrinkled its nose at the shirt, it kept coming.

  If it had been a guard dog, Tom would have stared it out and done his best to break its neck on the spring. But guard dogs usually came in pairs, not packs. Even if he killed this one he’d have to face the others.

  Sweat beaded the back of his neck, and trickled down his sides.

  Don’t show fear, Amelia had said.

  Tom’s body wasn’t listening.

  He forced himself to relax. It was in the breathing. It was in the way he released the tension in his shoulders. In the way he emptied himself of everything but now. Fear me, the creature said. This time Tom refused.

  He sensed rather than saw the wolf begin a slow circle of his tree, hackles bristling and rough hair half standing on its spine. Remembering what Amelia had said, Tom stood taller and the creature swung away, quicksilver through undergrowth as it disappeared.

  Tom’s relief was short-lived.

  When it returned it was with two others.

  To Tom’s horror, they flanked it like an honour guard.

  This time when they bared their teeth it was to growl low in their throats. They had their ears back and their hackles stood. Away behind Tom, the only wolf still in its cage howled in despair. And the wolf in front of Tom answered.

  Tom accepted the inevitable.

  Slipping round the tree, he began backing towards the distant cage, returning the way he’d come. He couldn’t always see those herding him, but he could hear their claws on the dry dirt, their breath rasping in their throats as they edged him away from the gates. They came together and split apart a dozen times. A semicircle of writhing grey that spread before him, weaving between trees as they drove him back. He was just one of a dozen warm dots, seemingly moving in sequence, to anyone using a night scope from the helicopter.

  That was his sole consolation.

  Don’t stumble, Amelia had warned.

  He stumbled anyway, taken down by a root he’d been too busy watching the wolves to notice. Hot eyes pinned him. Climbing purposefully to his feet, Tom made himself stand tall and froze. FitzSymonds was thirty paces away, knife in hand, his entire attention on something out of sight. As Tom watched, a wolf broke from the undergrowth and Fitz switched the knife to his other hand. The old man had found spoor and smeared himself in shit.

  Tom could smell him when the wind rose.

  The bastard was good at this.

  He glanced once in Tom’s direction, his gaze almost reaching where Tom stood; but the wolf crept in and FitzSymonds retreated through the trees. And all the while, the wolves edged both men towards the cages. Tom worried about what would happen when they arrived.

  107

  ‘Remember me?’ Amelia said.

  FitzSymonds turned in surprise to find her sitting in the open doorway of an empty cage. Her pistol was pointed firmly at him.

  ‘I’d face the wolves if I were you,’ she said.

  FitzSymonds turned back and realized that Tom now stood a dozen paces away, watching wolves gather in the gaps between trees.

  Judges? A jury? Tom wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’ve been tracking you,’ Tom said.

  ‘That’s not true.’ There was enough doubt in FitzSymonds’s eyes to put a quaver in his voice. Tom was glad of that.

  ‘You still do that little juggling thing with your knife, I see.’

  The knife was still in the old man’s hand, which meant the pistol was probably pushed into his belt. There wasn’t enough moonlight to let Tom confirm that. He watched the old man glance from his knife to the silent wolves, then to the pistol Amelia held in her unwavering hands.

  ‘I lied,’ he said. ‘Charlie’s safe.’

  ‘Don’t trust him,’ Amelia said.

  ‘He’s being held at Henry Petty’s old place. I left Henry’s dresser and an old friend of mine looking after him. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘And Caro?’ Tom asked. ‘You going to tell me that’s a lie too?’

  The old man hesitated. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth. I’m sorry, Tom. We can still make good on this, though. But I’m going to need the memoirs, and you have to help me find them.’

  Tom wasn’t listening. He was thinking of Caro, of her having to begin chemo with him not there to help her. When he looked up, the wolves had edged closer and FitzSymonds was staring at them. They stood in a half-circle at the edge of the clearing that held the cages. Their silence was more unnerving than their howls.

&nbs
p; ‘What do they want?’ FitzSymonds demanded.

  Tom looked to Amelia.

  ‘They want Tom to do the right thing,’ she said.

  She nodded to where the caged male growled to itself, turning frustrated circles behind its rusting bars. It was moth-eaten and limping, one-eyed. As furious as the rest at not having been fed, but foul-tempered from being kept caged when the others were free.

  ‘Don’t,’ FitzSymonds protested. ‘It’s probably rabid.’

  ‘No,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s not.’ Her voice was firm.

  Walking to the cage, Tom reached for the latch.

  ‘Don’t,’ FitzSymonds warned.

  When Tom ignored him, the old man switched his blade to his other hand and reached for his pistol, freeing it just as the door swung back.

  For a second the wolf stood in the doorway.

  Then FitzSymonds raised the pistol and aimed at the wolf, his finger already closing on the trigger. The wolf’s head jerked at the click, its gaze locking on the old man.

  ‘You’re out of bullets,’ Tom told him.

  ‘Can’t be. It carries eight.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve fired, Fitz.’

  The old man looked almost lost. He stiffened slightly as the wolf loped towards him, and stepped back. Dipping his hand into his pocket, Tom found the Trabant and tossed it into the cage. Both the wolf and FitzSymonds turning at the unexpected noise.

  ‘You wanted the memoirs, didn’t you?’ Tom nodded to the toy lying on the filthy floor. ‘There you go. He reduced them to microfiche.’

  ‘You’ve had them all along?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve had it all along.’

  ‘Well, fuck you.’ When the old man moved it was fast. He held his knife with both hands, low, groin level. Ready to stab.

  All his effort went into one swift strike.

  As Tom blocked, Amelia fired and FitzSymonds shrieked.

  He dropped the knife and clamped his hand to his leg, his stumble triggering deep instincts in the old wolf. Its nostrils wrinkled at the smell of fresh blood, its lips curled and FitzSymonds became the only thing in its world. As for the other wolves, they simply watched. Silent. Static.