"Don't worry about a thing." Trevor smiled with deep reassurance at the nervous store owner. "The restoration will be completely sympathetic and we will be using authentic materials and techniques throughout. It will look just like it was first built all those centuries ago."
"I was warned about the little imp figure." Mr Oliver had only recently bought the shop and was beginning to get unnerved by some of the unexplained happenings. "Apparently if he isn't painted red bad things happen."
"Red is the authentic colour for a figure of that type." Trevor mentally added another £100 to the eventual bill. "And we will, of course, be using the type of paint authentic to the period. You would not believe some of the shoddy attempts we've seen. People think it's find to go slapping modern gloss paint over medieval plasterwork. It's a shame really."
"I'm not really bothered about the paint type," Mr Oliver said faintly. "As long as it looks a bit better. Of course as it's in a conservation area I have to be a bit careful."
Internally Trevor sighed and took £100 back off the bill. "We are craftsmen, aren't we Ryan? We like to live up to the skills of the old masters who painstakingly put together these amazing works of art. We think it's important to keep the old traditions going. It would be tragic if the old skills were lost."
"Tragic." Ryan agreed from up the ladder next to the imp. "I mean, who puts an early twentieth century piece of chain on a medieval carved figure? It would make you cry. I'd say this chain was about 1932."
Trevor made a mental note to warn Ryan about overdoing it and all three followed the chain with their eyes as Ryan threw it down on the floor. As one they froze as a wicked chuckle came from out of nowhere. Then they all slowly looked up at the red imp. It wasn't there. Trevor swallowed. "Of course I do know someone who does a very good rate in absolutely authentic carved wooden figures."
Mr Oliver sighed a little with relief. Looking into the shop it already seemed a bit emptier. "I think that's a splendid idea."
He left yesterday morning. He wanted me to go with him, but I insisted on staying. Someone needed to look after the chickens and keep an eye on things. He said he would be back before I knew it with someone to sort out the generator.
It seems a long time ago. It’s been a while since I had a charge on my phone, and longer still since the last log burnt out of the fire. Now all I can do is watch the flame ebb on the lamp and wait.
And all the time the pad of paws pacing around the house grows louder. I hope the lamp lasts the night.
Hal pressed himself against the cold stone wall and tried to catch his breath. He had to risk using the torch on his phone. He didn’t want to run the battery down, but he needed to know if he was safe. The quick sweep of light showed bare stone. The fan vaulting overhead told him he was in the Chapter House. Surely Kirkstall Abbey was a safe place from werewolves. Surely they wouldn’t be able to come onto sacred ground.
Hal tensed as he thought he heard a growl near the bare stone doorway, but his mind caught up with his terror, and he realised it was just the sound of a motorbike. He leant back against the rough stone. Surely they wouldn’t come in here. This had to be a safe spot. He ran a reluctant hand over his left forearm. It felt damp and sticky and far too warm. His body ached.
If he could just hold out until morning, that would be alright, wouldn’t it? Hal knew he wasn’t thinking straight, as whatever was in that werewolf bite ran through him, but he felt himself holding on to a tiny core of rational thought. Werewolves could cope with sunlight, he thought, but this was Kirkstall Abbey. It wasn’t some remote spot out on the moors, but only ten minutes from the centre of Leeds and next to a busy main road. Werewolves wouldn’t want witnesses, would they?
Hal found himself sinking down the cold stone wall and slumping on the damp flags. All his bones throbbed and he hunched smaller, trying to ease the pains shooting through him. He had been bitten by a werewolf. His head felt like it was on fire. He felt his thirst was ripping his throat, but he didn’t dare look for water. He just needed to hold out until morning.
***
Lord Marius looked around in irritation at the man stumbling across the damp grass towards Kirkstall Abbey. “You are not Sergeant Anson.”
“I’m DC Jamie Flint.” He held out his hand towards Lord Marius who completely ignored it. There was an awkward pause. “Sergeant Anson is on leave at the moment. I’m covering for him.”
Lord Marius looked at him carefully. Jamie was in his late twenties, with thinning hair, an oversized uniform jacket, and an anxious expression. “Did Sergeant Anson tell you everything?” he asked.
“I’ve read the briefing notes.” Jamie shifted uncomfortably. Half an hour earlier he had been trying to convince an old lady to turn her music down because not all of her neighbours were fans of Frank Sinatra. He’d wanted more excitement, but the brief skim of the notes left by Anson hinted at more than that.
“Come this way.” Lord Marius gestured imperiously and Jamie followed. They skirted the main building and headed towards the river. A man in a battered raincoat and holding a large sports bag was there, surrounded by an orderly pack of very large dogs. “We have an incident, and I think it best that you deal with it.”
“Me?” Jamie nodded to the man standing around the back of the main structure and automatically held out a hand to the nearest dog. They were immaculately groomed and in peak condition. “Good boy.”
“Don’t call him a ‘good boy,’” Lord Marius said, sardonic amusement dripping from his tone. “That is Mark Davies, leader of the local pack. I’m sure he will have much to say when the moon is not full.”
Jamie went cold. As the moon came out from behind the clouds and added to the reflections of the local streetlights, he could see the pack a lot clearer. They looked like wolves. They looked like huge, well-muscled, well-fed wolves. “I’m sorry, my mistake,” Jamie said. What was it that they said in college? Never show fear? It was easier said than done. The wolf gave a sharp bark. Lord Marius shrugged.
“Mark Davies is remarkably understanding. Of course, he has a lot on his mind. Inside the ruins of the abbey is a man who has been bitten by a werewolf. You need to bring him out.”
“Is he badly hurt?” Jamie asked. “Do I need to call for medical back up?”
The man in the middle of the pack walked up to Jamie and shook his hand. “I’m Dr Dave, and I’m the medical backup.” He turned to Lord Marius. “The stray didn’t make it. His heart gave out. Perhaps it was for the best.”
Mark gave a series of sharp barks, and for some reason Jamie felt chills running down his back. “Stray?”
Dr Dave looked between Lord Marius and Jamie. “You’re new, aren’t you. Never mind. In brief, a stray is a werewolf that isn’t attached to a pack. They usually turn bad if they spend too long alone, and this one managed to pick up a case of white jaw – it’s a little like the werewolf version of rabies. There’s been the first outbreak in decades running around the country, and it’s causing havoc. It’s treatable, if caught in time, but the stray wasn’t able to get treatment. He may not have even realised he had it. The trouble is, the condition comes with delirium and hallucinations, and he bit a normal – someone who doesn’t know about werewolves. They ran inside the ruins.”
Mark gave a few staccato barks and a deep ‘woof’.
Lord Marius nodded. “Quite.” He turned to Jamie. “The pack can’t get into the building as it is too holy. They can manage most churches, but there have been some great, if unknown, saints here over the centuries who have left their mark, and it is out of bounds to the pack. Besides, they can’t risk getting the white jaw themselves. Dr Dave can treat the man if he can reach him, but he may need help restraining the victim. I’ve asked for help from the Knights Templar, but they’ve been caught up with a nest of vampire fledglings in the north of the city, and it will take time for them to get here.”
“Will you be able to save him?” Jamie asked.
Dr Dave looked worried. “If I get to him in time, I can treat the white jaw. I can’t stop him changing, but Mark is a good leader and will look after him. I just need to get to him first.”
Another deep ‘woof’ from Mark was translated by Lord Marius. “And as he transitions – which may be tonight or at the next full moon, depending on his infection – he’s going to be affected by the site. He won’t be able to stay there long.”
“How many exits can he reach?” Jamie asked.
“Just this one,” Dr Dave said. “We’ve blocked all the others with silver, so he should come out here.”
Jamie was not reassured by the uncertainty in the doctor’s voice. He looked over the ruins. Kirkstall Abbey was a mass of broken walls, uncertain pillars, dark shadows and council railings. The roof was intact over large parts of the medieval building, creating unlit, inky caverns. In the uncertain light, it was impossible to check all angles. “I think I need more support. Like, animal control…” He flinched as Mark took a pace forward and growled. “Sorry, but I don’t know what I can do.”
“You can help save a man’s life,” Dr Dave said briskly.
Jamie peered into the matt black shadows. He couldn’t see a thing. He pulled a torch from his belt. “What are we waiting for?” He had never been so scared in his life.
There was a yelping sound from within the building, then a growl. The pack took a collective step back as the whimpering and yelping came closer. Dr Dave pulled out a syringe. “You may not have to go in.”
Jamie stared, transfixed, as a large, bedraggled wolf limped out, its left foreleg stained and matted with blood, and the great jaws drooling foam. He groped for his taser. “Everyone stand clear.” Did he give the standard warning to a rabid werewolf? Where was the damn taser? He took a quick look around. All the wolves were standing alert and with hackles raised. Lord Marius had taken a step forward and had a large and illegal knife held in front of him. Dr Dave was moving slowly towards the new werewolf.
“Hello, I’m Dr Dave. Let me help you. All you need to do is relax and I’ll…” Dr Dave paused at the rising growl from Hal.
“I’m DC Flint.” Jamie dredged up his courage and stuck to his training. “If everyone stays calm then no-one will get hurt. Lie down on the floor…” Jamie stumbled to a halt. Hal didn’t have any hands to keep in sight. He had four paws and a tail that was stiff and angry looking. The huge head turned towards Jamie. He took a breath. “Stop there.” Jamie held up the taser. “Get down on the floor and allow the doctor to give you treatment.” His hands closed on the handle of the taser. “Police! Taser! Taser!” And Jamie fired.
To his horror, the werewolf didn’t go down. For a few awful moments, Hal twitched, then, instinctively, the new werewolf ignored the shaking running through him and crouched to leap.
‘I’m going to die,’ Jamie thought, as the werewolf seemed to rear up, almost in slow motion, then he recoiled as a shot rang out next to him. Whirling around he saw a thickset man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo lowering what looked like an automatic pistol. Jamie looked back at Hal. The werewolf lay limp with a dark stain spreading over the thin fur.
Mark bounded up to the shooter, barking urgently. The man nodded. “It’s okay, it was only loaded with lead. Everything alright?” He looked questioningly at Jamie.
Jamie looked over to where Dr Dave was checking over the victim as the rest of the pack gathered around. He nodded. “I think so. Thank you, I think you saved my life. I’m DC Flint.”
“Sir Dylan, Knights Templar.” He held the gun pointing at the ground, showing an uncomfortable familiarity with it.
Jamie took a breath. Less than an hour ago he had been dealing with a delusional ninety-year-old and her traumatised neighbours while ‘My Way’ had been belting out at window shaking volumes. Now he had seen a werewolf. He had not only seen werewolves, but he had called one a ‘good boy’ and lived, tasered one, seen one shot and seen the shot one starting to regain consciousness, although looking a lot less feral but seriously frightened. In front of Jamie’s horrified eyes, the battered wolf flowed until he was a naked man, blood smeared over his arm and chest, curled up and shivering. And Jamie was standing next to the man who had shot him without hesitation.
Jamie dragged all his training, all his small experience, and all his time as a copper and turned to Sir Dylan. “I hope you have a licence for that firearm.”
“I’m off out,” Egerton called. “I’ve left a casserole in the oven.”
“Right, thanks,” Darren said, Egerton’s voice only vaguely registering. He stared at the blank computer screen, working out where to start. He heard Egerton patter down the hall, the front door open, then a murmur of voices.
“Of course it’s not a bother,” he heard Egerton say. “Go through to the study, he’s not busy.”
Darren scowled. Egerton had an annoying habit of allowing everyone and anyone in, even if Darren was stuck on next week’s sermon. And now it seemed that he had a visitor when he could really do with peace and quiet. He got up, ready to greet the newcomer and froze on the spot.
A demon strolled into the study, oozing evil that trickled over Darren’s skin like an oil slick. He smiled coldly at Darren. “You can’t really complain about me coming in here. I was invited in, after all. And you can’t really blame your servant. Not many would recognise me.”
“I recognise you,” Darren said. “That is, I know what you are, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure in person. Who are you?”
“Names aren’t important.” The demon gracefully lowered himself into the armchair next to the fire.
“Names are important,” Darren said, every nerve ending on alert. The demon was young, from the feel of it. He hadn’t learned to hide his nature from those with training, and his attempt at casual assurance was shaky. That made him a little unpredictable.
The demon laughed. “I know that you’re Darren King. I saw it on the letters in the hall. And I know that you’re an ordained minister.” The demon gently rubbed his hands together. “To think, here I am in a fancy study, come to tempt an ordained minister. My mother, curse her blackened heart, would be so proud. You can call me Scratch .”
“Would you like a drink, Scratch?” Darren said, his mind racing.
“So you can lace it with holy water? I don’t think so. But please get one for yourself.” The demon looked so very average as he lounged in the chair, with a medium build and pale brown hair cut averagely short. His face was pale, but not unnaturally so, and the eyes that met Darren’s gaze were an unremarkable hazel. Darren wasn’t fooled. Evil slid off him like swathes of mud from a riverbank.
Darren strode over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle and a glass. He stood by his desk and poured himself a drink. “What do you want?”
“What happened to the label?” Scratch asked.
“It wasn’t a good vintage.” Darren took a mouthful. “And what are you doing calling door to door? How desperate are you?”
Scratch stared at Darren, hunger in his eyes. “Not as desperate as you, vicar. I know how much ministers are paid—or rather, how little they are paid.”
“Tell me about it.” Darren waved a hand around his uncluttered study. “They don’t respect the work or learning, just what you can do. They don’t care about my study.” Darren waved a hand at the neatly stuffed bookcase. “All they’re interested in is what I can do for them and for how little. I get sent all over the place, you know, without warning. But the Dean never seems to leave his fancy office.”
“I know how you feel,” Scratch said. “Those with the power don’t run around. They have people for that. The old demons with thousands of souls in their clutches can swagger around, but us with only bare bones have to bow and scrape.” He sneered at Darren. “I’m sure that the Dean doesn’t have to scrabble around for loose change to get hold of research material. I’d bet money that he doesn’t have to struggle to get hold of rare books or access to remote archives. Of course, he’ll look the part, with tailored suits and gowns. And I’m sure that there are plenty in your parish who look down on a threadbare preacher.”
Darren thought about his local Dean, a woman with the sweetest heart and a wardrobe even worse than his. Scratch really hadn’t done his research. Darren looked down at his supermarket jeans. They were clean, not torn, and covered up his important bits, and that was all you could say about them. He looked at Scratch, leaning towards him. There was a gleam of desperation in the demon’s eyes. “I do get told I need to dress the part,” Darren said, waving his glass to keep Scratch's attention while inching away from him.
“I can give you all the money you need, vicar.” Scratch stood and spread his hands, approaching Darren with an attempt at a genial smile. “For a scholar like yourself, the real reward would be the chance to buy some of those obscure texts that come up so rarely and cost so much. You could travel to all the best research centres, and to those lesser known places.” Scratch leaned forward. “You’ll have a list, I know, of those out of the way places that only allow their records to be seen in person. You could travel the world to unearth those arcane secrets.” He waved a hand, conjuring a vision of piled banknotes, heaped casually on Darren’s desk, next to share certificates and a tottering tower of gold coins. “I could do this for you, vicar. For a consideration.” A contract appeared on the desk.
“Surely an ordained minister’s soul is more valuable than that of an ordinary citizen?” Darren askedd, taking a step back. The heap of money doubled.
“I can give you so much,” Scratch said. “Money, jewels, whatever you desire.” He advanced slowly towards Darren. “Have another drink, vicar, and think about it. All that money, all that power for you, just for you.” Scratch picked up the bottle and held it towards Darren. “Just think about it.”
Darren glanced at the contract, watching Scratch out of the corner of his eye. “I’m a minister. I’m not prepared to lose my soul to an overzealous door-to-door demon.” He took another strategic step back.
“Take a look.” Scratch took a step forward and looked down, appalled. “Oh sh—”
He disappeared.
Darren took another mouthful of grape juice and flicked back the rug. The design was there, etched on the floorboards, glowing faintly. He’d spent many hours praying over it, that it might defend his study and his mission, and it had been worth it. Young demons tended to get carried away at the thought of hoarding souls, especially one belonging to a vicar, but few remembered to check to see if the minister was also an exorcist.
I wandered into the kitchen and smiled sleepily at my mother. “Good morning,” I said.
“You dreamt about him last night, didn’t you?” Mother asked.
I nodded as I pulled out a bowl. “He was in the background. Would you like any tea?”
“There’s some in the pot,” Mother said. She sat at the kitchen table, clasping her mug of tea in tightly folded hands. “You know, Leanne, you can’t carry on like this.”
“Hmm?” I said as pulled out a bowl and poured cereal.
“I mean, you need a proper boyfriend, not just someone in a dream,” she said. “You come down here some mornings with that smile on your face and I know what you’ve been dreaming of. It’s not right, though. You need someone real. You need someone you can touch when you’re awake.”
“It’s not that sort of dream,” I said helplessly.
Mother gave me an old-fashioned look. “I don’t want to ask what sort of dream puts that sort of smile on your face. Why don’t I invite Liam over for dinner? Well, I’ll ask his mother and she’ll bring him and you can be nice to him. I’m just saying, be friendly. He’s an assistant manager at the supermarket now, and that’s something these days.”
“Please don’t,” I said wearily. “And don’t tell his mum, but I think he has a girlfriend.”
“Really?” Mother’s eyes lit up at the hint of gossip.
“I’ll tell you all about it tonight,” I said as I poured milk into my mug and over my cereal. I added tea to the mug and sat down. “If I remember. We have a new boss coming in.”
“It should have been you, you know,” Mother said. “You should have applied. Anyway, I want to hear all about them. They may be worth a date.”
“I haven’t got the qualifications to apply for that sort of job yet,” I reminded my mother. “That’s why I’m studying in the evening. Besides, it’s probably someone married or really old.”
“You may get lucky,” Mother said. “You have to find a boyfriend at some point.”
“I’ll tell you all about it tonight,” I repeated. I stuffed the last spoonful of cereal into my mouth and followed it with the last mouthful of tea. “I’ll see you later!” I grabbed my coat and bag and ran out.
I sat on the bus and smiled as I remembered the dream. He had been there. The man in my dreams. Every now and then, I’d see him. Last night I dreamt I was trying to revise for a test but the words kept blurring together and I couldn’t remember the topic. He had been in the background and then handed me the answers just as I woke up. He was usually in the background, perhaps next to me in a crowd or on a ship or a train or in a theatre or wherever my dreams took me. He had short, dark hair. It wasn’t clipped short, but it was above his collar and it was thick and straight apart from a tuft in his fringe that stuck up just a little. He had kind, deep brown eyes and a gentle smile. In my dreams he had been a haven every time. He wasn’t heroic looking, I suppose. He was taller than me, but then, I’m not exactly tall myself, and I never saw him flexing muscles. But when I saw him I always felt safe and warm and I knew that everything would be alright. Every time we touched or talked or interacted in any way, he was helping me. He wasn’t fighting dragons or zombie hordes. He was just there with what I needed. If he wasn’t helping me, then I was helping him. A few weeks ago I dreamt that we were at the beach. Mother was insisting that the sandwiches should be made here but in the background I could see him in the water and I took a towel to him as he got out of the water. It was always those little things, those little kindnesses and I always woke up feeling loved.
I pulled myself together as I got off the bus and dragged myself into the building, wondering if the new boss was there yet. I could hear murmurs as I trudged across the lobby and into the main office, so I guessed that he had got here early. Mr Givens, the big man from the main office, would be showing the new manager around as if he knew what we did, which he didn’t. I didn’t know anything about the new manager, but I hoped that they wouldn’t be too bad. The last manager, Mr Roland, had been a darling and had bought cakes all round on the last Friday of every month. His retirement had left a gap.
I hung up my coat and looked across. It was someone taller than me, but not particularly tall. He had kind brown eyes and though his short, dark hair was smoothed down, a tuft stuck up in front.
“This is Leanne, who is the data analyst here,” Mr Givens said. “She knows how this office works, so feel free to ask her anything. Leanne, this is Tom Rivers, the new manager.”
My eyes met his. It was my dream man. It was him, the one who was there for me in my dreams. And as he reached out to shake my hands I saw recognition in his eyes, a connection as if he remembered those dreams as well. We murmured conventional pleasantries, but there was no doubt that we both knew.
“Perhaps Leanne can come to lunch with me,” Tom said. His voice was as I remembered, deep and soothing. “She can bring me up to speed on all the details.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “We usually break here at one.”
“Excellent,” Mr Givens said. “Well, I’ll let you find your way around now, Tom. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
As Tom saw Mr Givens to the door, I switched on the kettle. Tea for me, coffee for him with milk and one sugar, just like the dreams. And I was absolutely not going to tell Mother about this.
It was the longest night of the year and she always found it tough. She loved the sunlight and long days, and the dark, dreary nights pressed down on her like a weight. She sat next to the new woodburning stove and watched the flames flickering. He’d forbidden her to get a stove, of course. “Central heating is good enough for the church in the village, so it’s good enough for us.” The church was always freezing, though, and the central heating had never quite given the warmth of a fire in this draughty room. She added a small fragment of crumbling wood to the stove and watched it crackle into fiery life.
Traditionally it was a time to look back at the last year and on to the next. Last year had been a long, grinding slog with little respite. Her husband had fallen ill, and they had found it was terminal with very little time left.
“I told you to see a doctor about that cough,” she had said.
He had glared at her, his eyes sunk in his greying face but the glint of malice still bright. “I was never going to let you tell me what to do. You were always trying to get one over on me. You never knew your place.”
She shrugged. “Can I fetch you some water?”
“That fool Jeffries has been on the phone,” he had snarled. “They won’t let me change the payee on the life insurance. Did you sleep with him? You should have made me go to the doctor – I bet you worked it so that I wouldn’t.”
She had stared at him for a long moment. She had begged him for months to get a medical appointment but his refusal was still her fault. “It won’t be much,” she said. “I’ll have to go back to work.”
“No you won’t!” he had growled before a coughing fit took him. He sipped some water and gathered his strength. “I’ve made arrangements. There’ll be enough for you to live quietly, but you’re not to go gallivanting around and meeting people, and you’re not to change anything in the house.” His smile under the oxygen mask took on a vicious slant. “When I said I’ve made arrangements, I mean I’ve made proper arrangements. I’ve been speaking to Doctor Adodo and I’ll be haunting you. I’ll be watching every move you make and I’ll be waiting for you at the other side instead of crossing straight over.” The vicious angle of his smile grew stronger. “And you won’t like what happens if you disobey.”
He had not lasted long after that, and the funeral had been particularly grim. Hardly anyone attended apart from the unnerving Dr Adodo with his assistant and a scattering of neighbours who had nothing better to do. Unexpected fog had risen from the grave as he had been lowered down and Dr Adodo had given her a meaningful look. If she hadn’t seen Dr Adodo’s assistant tip dry ice into the grave as the minister said the last prayers, she would have been seriously upset.
The clock in the hall struck ten. She had spent enough time thinking of the past. There was a good film on and a bottle of wine in the fridge. He had been wrong about so many things. She had never stopped him going to see a doctor. She had never slept with Mr Jeffries at his old firm. And he was not haunting her. There had been a few unpleasant incidents at first, when she had started to redecorate, but she had dealt with that. She tossed the last piece of coffin wood onto the fire before standing up and fetching the wine. YouTube really did have a tutorial for everything.
