Lycanthropic (Book 2): Wolf Moon (The Rise of the Werewolves)

by Morris, Steve

  Upper Terrace, Richmond upon Thames, West London, waning moon

  A day had passed since Melanie had returned home, and Sarah was growing ever more anxious. Mel was a dreadful patient, not allowing Sarah to tend to her wounds properly, refusing to eat proper meals, constantly saying that she just wanted to be left alone. And she positively forbade Sarah to call for a doctor. It was just like Mel to be difficult. She had always had a strongly independent, defiant nature. But she had never shut herself away like this before.

  Usually her sister adored being fussed over. As a small child she’d once had a nasty ear infection and had loved being the centre of attention for a week. It had made Sarah jealous until she caught the illness too and realized how horrible it was. But Melanie was willing to endure any hardship if it meant she could be the main event. Her current refusal to be looked after was both uncharacteristic and worrying.

  Equally worrying, despite Sarah’s continued questioning, Mel refused to say where she had been during the time she’d been missing. She wouldn’t discuss James either, other than to repeat again that he’d rescued her.

  ‘From what?’ Sarah demanded. ‘From where?’

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ said Melanie, knowing full well that Sarah could barely bring herself to speak to their new guest.

  At least James was no trouble. He stayed in his room, never coming out, not even appearing downstairs for meals. Sarah had taken some tea and bread up to him the first day. She’d stood outside the guest room, knocking on the locked door, but James hadn’t emerged or even acknowledged her. She’d left the food and drink on a tray outside his room, but today it was still untouched. She hadn’t seen him since he’d first arrived, and only occasional sounds like the creak of the floorboards as he moved around the room convinced her that he was still in there.

  A couple of times during the night she’d heard loud sobbing coming from his room and had knocked again on his door, but he hadn’t replied. Only once had she seen him, creeping quietly to the bathroom. He’d averted his face from her quickly when he saw her, but not before she’d seen the red eyes and tear-stained face that showed he’d been crying again.

  So it was a surprise when she heard him coming down the stairs in the early hours. Sarah had stayed up late, tending to Grandpa, who no longer seemed to distinguish between day and night, and might eat or sleep at any time, or not at all. The old man had drifted off eventually, and Sarah was sitting quietly by the TV, watching the latest events unfold on the news. She started up when James appeared, opening her mouth to greet him, then quickly closed it again, as the words turned to dust in her open mouth. She turned her face away, embarrassed and ashamed by her inability to speak to him.

  James stood in the doorway, seeming afraid to enter. An awkward silence filled the room for a long while until James broke it, saying, ‘I should leave. You don’t like me staying here. You want me gone.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sarah, forcing herself to say the words aloud. ‘It’s not that.’ She felt terrible that James had jumped to that conclusion. But really, how could he think otherwise? She knew just how bad her behaviour must seem to other people. It had been years now since any guests had come to the house. Melanie had stopped bringing people home when she realized that Sarah just couldn’t handle them anymore.

  ‘What then?’ asked James. ‘Is it something Melanie told you about me?’

  She looked up at him, forcing herself to make eye contact with him very briefly. He still looked terrible. The time he’d spent in his room had done him no visible good. Hardly surprising since he hadn’t touched any of the food or drink she’d made him. He hadn’t showered or changed clothes either, as far as she could see. The tear tracks on his cheeks looked fresh, and his eyes seemed even more sunken, more ringed with black than when he had first come to the house.

  ‘My sister hasn’t really told me anything about you,’ said Sarah. ‘But this isn’t about you. It’s about me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked James.

  Sarah took a deep breath and stared at the wall. ‘I’m not very good at meeting new people. In fact, that’s something of an understatement. I have an extreme pathological form of shyness. The condition I suffer from is called anthropophobia. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it? It’s quite rare.’

  ‘Anthropophobia,’ repeated James. ‘That must be a Greek word. Fear of other people?’

  ‘Hey, you’re good,’ said Sarah, forcing a tiny smile onto her lips. She glanced toward him, then turned her gaze to the floor. She found that she could speak to him as long as she didn’t look at his face. There was something reassuring about the boy that made her want to open up to him, despite herself. ‘It started when I was a teenager, perhaps even earlier. Perhaps I’ve always been this way. I was awkward with other people, worried what they would think of me. I think it was because I had such a wonderful sister. Everyone always loved Melanie. She charmed them, made them feel good about themselves. She had so many friends, and she was thin and beautiful too. I knew I could never be like her, so I guess I gave up on life altogether. I developed an eating disorder. I hated the way I looked, the things I said. Gradually I withdrew from other people. I had fewer and fewer friends. Eventually I stopped going outside completely. The only people I ever speak to now are Melanie and Grandpa.

  ‘It’s not worked out so bad, really,’ she continued. ‘Melanie and I make a team, of sorts. She does the things I can’t do. She deals with the outside world and brings home money.’ She stopped for a moment, hoping James wouldn’t ask how Melanie earned her money; that she wouldn’t have to tell him about the men she seduced and stole from. ‘And I do the things Melanie can’t. I stay home and care for Grandpa. So, together, it all works out.’

  She looked up and saw that James had covered his face with his hands. That was good. If he didn’t look at her, maybe she could be okay with him. In fact, it was a relief to speak about her condition at last, to someone who seemed to understand a little. Melanie had never understood. She was able to accept Sarah, but would never really understand her sister.

  James kept his hands over his face. ‘It all worked out until now,’ he said glumly. ‘Until I arrived and drove a wedge between you and Melanie.’ He began to sob quietly, his shoulders rocking gently. ‘Everything I touch I destroy,’ he said. ‘Anyone I care about gets hurt, or worse. I should have just killed myself when I had the chance.’ He broke down completely then, racked with a desperate sobbing, a noise like a wail escaping from his open mouth.

  Sarah sat watching him, wondering what to do. Melanie would know. She was so good with people. Or was she? Maybe that was only half the story. Melanie could be selfish too. She kept a foul tongue in her pretty head. She grew bored with people quickly and lashed out without thinking. She fled from situations she couldn’t handle. She created messes and left them for others to clean up. Would Melanie really know how to deal with this?

  Sarah stood cautiously and edged across the room, slowly closing the gap between herself and James. She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder, feeling the agony that shook his body in violent spasms. Her other hand lifted itself unbidden to touch his arm, and she gripped him as he cried, feeling the warmth of another human being under her hands for the first time in years.

  After some minutes he quietened, and his body ceased its shaking. He lifted his chin and looked up at her. Sarah forced herself not to turn away. There was nothing to fear. He was a boy, just a harmless boy. She waited until he had stopped crying completely before she took her hands away from him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Brixton Hill Police Station, South London, waning moon

  Liz went into work early the next morning. A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast of fried bacon and sausages cooked by her father, and she was feeling much more herself.

  ‘You’re looking better, love,’ her father said. ‘Apart from your eyes. Are they still hurting you?’

  ‘It’s just tiredness,’ said Liz, pu
lling on her sunglasses so he couldn’t see the yellow tint. They’ll be better in a few days.’ She gave Mihai a hug and headed off to report for duty.

  Dean arrived at the police station the same time as her. He gave her a big grin. ‘It’s good to see your lovely face,’ he told her. ‘Just what I need on a beautiful day like today.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Liz. ‘I wish I could say the same for you.’ The dark bruises on his forehead looked even worse than when she’d last seen him. ‘You should really be at home. Or better still, back at the hospital.’

  ‘I’d just be clogging up a bed,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear being useless.’

  When they went inside there was a letter waiting on Dean’s desk. He picked it up and read it with dismay. ‘Oh,’ he said, the broad grin vanishing from his face. ‘It’s from the Chief Superintendent. He wants to see me in his office.’

  The Chief Super didn’t normally send personalized letters, and when he did they meant important news – sometimes good, but more often bad. ‘Maybe a promotion?’ suggested Liz optimistically. ‘Or a commendation for bravery?’

  ‘More likely a reprimand for getting into such an awful mess on New Year’s Eve.’ He went off to the Chief Super’s office, a glum look on his face.

  Liz made a cup of tea for them both and started working on her report of the New Year’s Eve events. The part where she had saved people from a burning vehicle was straightforward. The bit where she had transformed into a monster and savaged a bunch of rioters would require some creative writing.

  She was sitting with her fingers poised over her computer keyboard when Dean returned from the meeting with the Chief Superintendent. She glanced nervously at his face and was relieved to see that his grin was back. ‘What was it, then?’ she asked. ‘A big fat pay rise?’

  ‘Not exactly. At first I thought I was in trouble over what happened during the riots. You know – the way we got separated from the others. But in fact the Chief was full of praise – for me and you too. But that’s not what he wanted to speak to me about.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with the riots. Or rather it is, I suppose.’

  ‘Dean! Stop being so cagey. What did he say?’

  ‘He’s speaking to all the Authorised Firearms Officers in the borough. There’s a new policy in place as of today. All Firearms Officers will carry weapons routinely until the current crisis is resolved. And even better news – he wants us out on patrol as much as possible, so you can scrap that report you’re writing and come with me. We’re hitting the streets! Come on, before he changes his mind.’

  Liz grabbed her jacket and followed him out of the office. She was relieved that she wouldn’t have to file her report, and it would be good to get out on patrol again, but the fact that Dean would be carrying a gun did nothing to put her at ease.

  Like most British police officers, Liz had never been trained to use a gun. She had never wanted the life-or-death responsibility of handling one. But Dean was an Authorised Firearms Officer and was qualified to handle weapons if the situation required it. That happened very rarely and could only be authorized by a senior commander. The fact that the Chief Superintendent felt the need for Dean to begin carrying a gun at all times made the gravity of the current situation even more apparent.

  Dean led the way to the station’s secure armoury. The officer there issued him with a pistol and a holster, and also an assault rifle. ‘Sign here,’ said the officer, and Dean scrawled his messy signature on the paperwork.

  Liz must have looked apprehensive, because Dean gave her a reassuring smile as they walked out to their patrol car. ‘We’ll be safe with these bad boys,’ he told her when they reached the car. He showed her the pistol. ‘A Glock 17 semi-automatic. It’s a self-loading 9mm handgun with seventeen rounds. I’ll be carrying this at all times from now on.’ He slid the handgun back into its holster. Next he showed her the assault rifle. ‘This beauty is a Heckler & Koch G36C semi-automatic carbine. It’s for more serious action.’ He opened the boot of the patrol car and secured the rifle inside. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  She got into the car and sat in the passenger seat next to him. He could tell she was still nervous about the weapons. ‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘if you’d had a gun with you when Dave Morgan was attacked by the Beast, he wouldn’t be dead now.’

  Liz nodded uncertainly. With a gun in her hand she could have shot and killed that creature before it had even attacked. Dave Morgan would still be her partner, instead of Dean. And Dave’s widow and daughters would still have a husband and a father. But knowing what she now suspected – that the Beast of Clapham Common was actually a human transformed into a monster – she couldn’t be certain that she’d ever have pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  West Field Terrace, South London, waning moon

  Rose’s father returned to work after the Christmas and New Year holiday. It had been good having the whole family around over Christmas, especially after all her horrible experiences, and she’d felt safe knowing that he was home and not in any danger. Now, after her nightmare, she felt a cold stab of fear waving goodbye to him when he set off by car after breakfast.

  But to her surprise and relief, he was back home again within an hour of leaving. ‘It’s mad out there,’ he complained. ‘Total gridlock. The police have told people only to travel if their journey is absolutely necessary. But what is that supposed to mean? Is going to work absolutely necessary? Or has that become optional, now?’

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ said Rose’s mum. ‘They’re just trying to bring some order to the chaos, I expect.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to get cross. It’s just that the army seems to be causing most of the chaos. They’ve put up barriers and checkpoints on all the major routes. It would have taken me hours to get to work, so in the end I just turned around and came home.’

  ‘What about public transport?’ asked Rose. ‘Could you take the bus or the train?’ Not that she wanted her dad to go to work at all. She was relieved when he shook his head.

  ‘According to the travel reports on the radio, the buses are having the same problems with congestion, and half of the underground train stations have been closed too,’ he said. ‘I’ll call my boss and tell him what’s happening, and see if I can get some work done from home.’

  ‘What about the curfew last night?’ asked Rose. ‘The soldiers didn’t shoot anyone did they?’ The memory of soldiers shooting people in her dream still haunted her.

  ‘No,’ said her dad. ‘Of course not. They arrested some people, but so far they haven’t needed to use their weapons.’

  So far, thought Rose. Yet in her dream, they already had. She had seen how it would be.

  ‘We should stock up on food,’ said Rose’s mum. ‘It would be a good idea to make sure the cupboard and fridge are both full, just in case. And I need to get more medication for Oscar too.’ Rose’s younger brother, Oscar, suffered from cystic fibrosis. He needed various medicines to stop him becoming seriously ill.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Rose. She’d been cooped up far too much recently, and it would be good to get out of the house again. She was determined not to let her dreams frighten her. Getting outside would be the best way to stay strong. She grabbed her coat and scarf and headed out with her mum.

  Usually they shopped at the big supermarket about a mile away, but with the traffic being so bad, Rose’s mum decided to head to nearby Electric Avenue instead. It was a bustling part of town, full of small independent traders. The street had been a flash point for race riots back in the 1980s and had lent its name to a famous song, but these days it was the thriving heart of trendy multicultural Brixton. ‘It’ll be just like how my own mother used to shop when I was a girl,’ joked Rose’s mum. ‘She used to go to the butcher and the baker every single day.’

  ‘And the candlestick maker too?’ suggested Rose.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn
’t come to that,’ laughed her mum.

  But when they got to Kowalski’s Polish supermarket it was more like life during wartime. The shopkeeper’s son stopped them as they walked through the door and handed them a basket. ‘How many people are in your household?’ he asked.

  ‘Four,’ replied Rose’s mum, surprised by the question. ‘Why?’

  ‘You can only buy six items for each person,’ he told her, handing her a piece of card with a large number ‘4’ written on it in green.

  ‘Only six items each?’ demanded Rose’s mum. ‘You must be joking. How are we supposed to manage with that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the young man. ‘We don’t know when we’ll be able to re-stock. I suggest you come back again this afternoon if you need more. My father might have been able to get more supplies by then.’

  They bought what they could. The shop had already been emptied of bread and fresh milk, and the only fruit and vegetables remaining looked old and bruised. In the end they had to choose mostly tinned and boxed goods. ‘At least this stuff will keep,’ said Rose.

  The prices were much higher than at their normal supermarket too. Reluctantly her mum handed over her credit card to the man at the checkout, but he pointed to a sign that stated, Cash only, thank you. ‘No cards? Really?’ she asked indignantly, searching in her purse for some money. ‘And I can’t believe how much you’re charging for basic foods.’

  The man, who Rose knew as the shopkeeper’s other son, shrugged indifferently. ‘Supply and demand,’ he said. ‘One week from now, you’ll look back and think this was cheap.’

  ‘How rude,’ said Rose’s mum once they had left the shop. ‘I won’t be going back there unless I have to.’

  But when they reached the pharmacy at the corner of the High Street a nastier shock awaited them. ‘Oh my God,’ said Rose, staring at the twisted steel shutters that had once protected the shop entrance and windows. The car that had been used to smash into the shutters still stood abandoned, its wheels up on the pavement, blocking the route to pedestrians. It looked like someone had set the car alight, and it was little more than a burned-out wreck. A makeshift sign on the door of the pharmacy read, Closed until further notice.