Chapter 20

The sun had sunk below the Beverley rooftops and darkness had descended upon the open countryside around Stephen Taylor’s isolated house to the east of the town. The old man sat in the lounge drinking his recent gift of Asbach brandy and watching the Wild Geese on television. He’d seen the 1978 film many times, but never tired of watching the horrible black soldiers being killed by the brave white mercenaries. He also loved how one of the main cast, Hardy Kruger, was a German like himself. He smiled affectionately and raised his glass to the onscreen actor and then to the portrait of Hitler above the fireplace.

Hearing a loud knock at the front door and muting the sound on his remote, he eased himself up from his chair and checked through the lounge window before answering.

“Who the hell is this?” he muttered.

He didn’t recognise the young man who stood motionless under his front porch. Stocky and shaven-headed like himself, his visitor wore a lengthy raincoat and presumably must have arrived here on foot; there was no vehicle on the dark drive.

But why would some stranger would walk here? Maybe his car had broken down, or perhaps it was a salesman? Taylor frowned. A salesman on foot didn’t seem likely.

He walked into the hallway, switched on the external porch light and ensured the sturdy restrictor bar was in place on the door. He’d kicked open enough house doors in his time, when attacking black and Jewish homes, to know something about domestic protection. Instead of the usual chain that any toddler could probably snap, he’d fitted a steel security bar similar to those used in hotel rooms.

“Who is it?” he asked, turning the key.

“Stephen Taylor?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who are you?”

The old man opened the door to the extent of the restrictor and squinted through the four-inch gap, his eyes widening in amazement to see that his caller was now naked with the raincoat lying at his feet. He caught his breath, the amazement turning instantly to fright as the temperature plummeted and the man’s reddish-brown body began to grow in height and bulk out, almost as if it were being inflated like some ghastly Halloween balloon.

Horrified, Taylor slammed the entrance shut, then staggered back as it crashed open, the deadlock and restrictor flying past his head. He couldn’t recall what he’d paid for the security bar, but realised he might just as well have used steamed spaghetti.

What was this thing? More to the point, what the fuck did it want from him?

Five inches taller and much wider now, the dark figure lumbered inside and reached out for him. Taylor backed away across the hall, whimpering in terror and avoiding the grasping hand. The features had somehow changed, the eyes had shrunk, almost vanishing in the flattened face, and the wide mouth was an open black slit.

What were these red markings on its torso? What WAS it?

The old man was fit enough for his sixty-nine years, but the fear-induced adrenalin boost certainly helped as he scampered down the passage from the entrance hall to the rear kitchen. He looked back to see the dreadful creature walking steadily after him.

Walking? Why wasn’t it running?

Tugging back bolts with trembling fingers, Taylor threw open the kitchen door and ran out into the darkness, his heart pounding and his breath shallow and rapid. The Leylandii hedges on either side of his rear garden were dense and impenetrable − he couldn’t escape through them − but he could easily scale the waist-high fence at the bottom of the lawn. The huge figure strode after him as he hurried across the grass, his mind spinning in panic.

Whatever it was, it didn’t seem able to move any faster than this weird walking pace. Once he negotiated the fence, he could definitely get away from it.

“Shit!” he hissed, wincing in pain.

It was dark and he’d forgotten the barbed wire fixed along the top of the woodwork, but who cared if he injured his hands? Right now, bleeding fingers were the least of his worries.

“Fuck you,” snarled Taylor in German, awkwardly clambering over as the ponderous creature caught up with him. “I’m out of here.”

With the garden fence now between them, he backed away in triumph, then stopped abruptly and looked down to see his right shirt sleeve snagged on the wire. Moaning, he jerked frantically to free himself as large fingers clamped on his wrist.

“Oh, no, no...”

The thing had been closer than he’d realised. Taylor was yanked effortlessly back over the fence and held up in two hands, his dangling feet kicking in mid-air, as the creature appeared to inspect him. Lowering him to the ground, it pulled the struggling man against its brick-hard torso, almost as if they were preparing to smooch.

“What are you doing?” screamed Taylor. It wrapped its left arm tightly around his waist and placed its right hand firmly on his ribcage. “No, don’t. Don’t...”

The hand pushed at his chest, bending the old man backwards over the rigid arm. Taylor heard a loud crack and briefly wondered if someone had fired a gun. His final thought was the realisation that the noise had been much nearer. It was the sound of his own spine snapping.

* * *

Turning his car off Hull Bridge Road, Quist pulled into Stephen Taylor’s driveway. “Hello,” he murmured, seeing the front door was wide open. “What’s going on here?”

“Could he be on his way out?” asked Watson. Climbing from the passenger seat, he walked to the porch and spotted the raincoat on the ground. “Er, Guv, this doesn’t look good.”

“It looks positively bad,” said Quist, noticing brown dusty marks on the porch step and darting inside. “Stay behind me.”

“No need to worry about that,” muttered the youth.

The pair ran through the house, quickly checking the empty downstairs rooms, and into the kitchen where the rear door also stood open.

“What the hell...” Watson pointed to the bottom of the garden. There was enough light to make out a young bald man climbing over the fence. “That guy... he’s stark bollock naked.”

“Well spotted.” The detective nodded. “Although that hasn’t escaped my attention.”

Hearing their voices, the nude figure glanced back at them and ran into the darkness across the meadow. They raced down the lawn and Watson recoiled at the sight of the deformed corpse on the grass.

“This is almost certainly Stephen Taylor,” said Quist, grimacing. “Good Lord, he killed him by breaking his back. The old man’s body has been folded backwards, completely in two like a pocket knife.”

“You don’t say.” Watson let out a nervous laugh. “I told you he wouldn’t talk to us.”

“A very bad joke,” said Quist, watching the killer sprinting across the misty field.

“Bloody hell,” gasped the teenager. “He’s fast, isn’t he?”

“Too fast for me to catch like this,” admitted Quist. With no time to undress, he shrugged off his leather overcoat and quickly removed his watch and signet ring. “Fortunately it’s dark and this place is fairly secluded.”

“Oh, here we go,” muttered Watson, wincing to hear the tearing clothing, crackling bones and grunts of pain as the detective shapeshifted. His breath became visible on the icy air and he peered down at the black wolf through the cloud. “That guy has a shaven head and he looked pretty muscular. Do you suppose it was Tonga, the fake carer from Wisteria Lodge?”

“Without a doubt,” growled Quist, rising from the transformation. “It’s time I had a chat with him. This shouldn’t take long.”

The werewolf sprang over the fence and raced after the killer on all fours, bounding ghost-like through the low mist. A group of ground-roosting partridges sensed the approaching creature, spotted the glowing amber eyes and exploded upwards in raucous panic.

Hearing the alarmed birds and looking back, the naked man saw he was being pursued and turned right to crash through a hawthorn hedge into a cattle field. The wolf cringed inwardly at the thought of negotiating any kind of prickly vegetation whilst nude, then realised he was heading for the Barmston Drain, the twenty-mile dyke created to drain this flat landscape. The fleeing killer leapt the misty waterway and continued to the River Hull, which for the most part ran alongside the dyke on its meandering journey to the Humber. Scattering terrified cows, Quist bounded across the dyke and saw that his quarry had come to a halt on the riverbank ahead.

He glanced back at the drain and smiled suspiciously. The water he’d just crossed was over fifteen feet wide. Any human, even an Olympic athlete on steroids, would have trouble clearing that distance. He’d wondered about the remarkable strength used in the recent murders and now there was this.

“Don’t run any further,” shouted the wolf, approaching. “I can easily catch you and I believe we should talk.”

The naked man stood motionless facing the river, his hands hanging by his sides. With the darkness and the mist, he probably didn’t realise he’d been chased by a wolf, but if Quist’s suspicions were correct, it wouldn’t matter. Quist raised himself on his hind legs and moved warily towards the silent figure, sniffing the night air.

This was intriguing. There was no scent, and the man wasn’t breathing heavily following his burst of exertion, the still shoulders and back were proof of that.

“I know you killed Stephen Taylor back there,” said the wolf. “But I don’t know why. There’s something about you that leads me to deduce...”

Leaning forward, the figure toppled face-first into the water with a huge splash.

“Damn,” snarled Quist, rushing to the banking, but arriving too late.

He hadn’t expected this and he’d no intention of following him. From the steady flow, the River Hull looked to be deep at this point and the black ripples slowly vanished as Quist waited. He carefully watched the surface and the grassy banks left and right for any sign of the man re-emerging. It was a lonely spot with open fields on either side, and he’d be easily spotted when he appeared. Seconds turned into minutes and the wolf frowned, realising that he wasn’t coming back up.

The half-moon broke through the clouds and, noticing dark dusty marks where the man had stood, he lowered his muzzle and sniffed. There was no human scent here - no scent whatsoever apart from the faint aroma of damp clay.

“Interesting,” growled the wolf, smiling shrewdly and rising onto two legs.

A distant gasp of shock jolted him and he turned to see a frightened couple walking a dog some two-hundred feet away along the riverbank. He’d been too preoccupied to pick up their footsteps and smell and, cursing under his breath, the wolf dropped back onto all fours and sprinted away across the field.

“Now do you believe me?” stammered the girl to her boyfriend. “You wouldn’t have it, but I told you those stories about the Barmston Drain werewolf were probably true.”

Her terrified spaniel demonstrated its agreement by unintentionally defecating on her foot.