RF#256 - What's the Time Mr Wolf?
Episode 1 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 2 by Steve Lake
Episode 3 by Mark Simpson
Episode 4 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 5 by Steve Lake
Episode 6 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 7 by Steve Lake
Episode 8 by Gareth Preston
Completed
Warning - This story contains adult themes that some readers may find upsetting.
Episode 1
by Kenny Davidson
I remember with great affection the man who murdered my mother.
Murder is simple, like the sudden jab of a needle administered by the better nurses. It is also far less painful that the slow deliberate incision of fear and contempt. My mother brought too many men like that into our house, and it was my room that, in the dead of night, they invaded. And not just my room.
My house was no longer a prison after that. The streets became my home, and my life was funded by the 'skills' I'd been forced to learn at home. However, at least I was now being paid for those services, and I had an element of control.
Today my life has taken a different path again. He came back into my life. My benefactor. The man who murdered my mother. He offered me a job. The clientele would be the same as before. Even the job will appear similar. But the pay will be far better, as will the protection. You see, the services will be slightly different. I listen to the clients instructions, begin to facilitate, but my main job description will supersede any instructions that the client provides. My employer's instruction will be paramount. The clients sent to my room are not to leave alive.
I have never killed before. But there's a first time for everything, I suppose.
***
Snide watched as the old man approached the booth with trepidation. With his black woollen trench coat and bowler hat he looked as inconspicuous as everyone else who came to this establishment. But when he made eye contact, behind those thick- rimmed glasses that he wore, there was a flicker of ... disgust? No too strong a word. Pity? Surely not. Guilt was the usual look behind the eyes of clients to Snide's shadowy world. But there was something about this man that instantly spoke of someone different. And different meant bad. Even in this time.
"I wonder if you could help," began the man. Clipped Radio 4 pronunciation. Softly spoken. Authoritative, even if underplayed.
"It's not often that folk visiting here ask me for the help," Snide replied dryly. And with his portly build he'd be surprised if they did. Did this old man know where he was? What purported to lie beyond these front doors?
The old man was carrying something in his black leather gloved hands. There was a white silk scarf discreetly around his neck, and a restrained collar and tie beneath that. Government possibly. Or worse. But if he was a threat, he still looked like a contemporary one.
The man produced a photograph from a book, and Snide was sure that he spotted the words 'Diary' on the cover of the pastel covered book. It looked a bit girlie for a man like this to be holding. Each to his own though.
"Have you seen this girl, by any chance?"
Snide glanced lazily at the image, and kept perfect composure as he recognised the girl it showed. He looked at the man feigning ignorance. But those cold eyes bore into him with an intensity that he couldn't resist. He lowered his eyes to the photo again, preferring to lie without eye contact. "Lots of girls come and go around here, but she's a bit young for this sort of place, I'd say."
"This was taken a year ago," added the man. "She looked a lot like her mother did at that age."
I bet, thought Snide to himself, eyeing the old man as he returned the photo slowly into the book. Snide once more found himself looking at that diary's cover. It was a girl's, he was sure, and he suspected he knew who that diary belonged to. Alarm bells were ringing in his head.
"Is she in some kind of danger?" Snide asked, before the pause in the conversation caused him to perspire with pressure.
"I do so hope not."
"Hope?!" Snide scoffed instinctively.
He could feel that man's eyes once more drilling into his facade.
"You speak of dangerous things, my friend," added Snide.
The old man stiffened, but more from the attempt of association that the man was making rather than his views on basic emotions.
"Not that hope doesn't have its place," Snide continued, sure that this line of moral wallpaper would push the old man away. And indeed it did.
The old man doffed his hat in a strangely old fashioned manner. "Thank you anyway, sir," he said, turning to leave.
Snide smirked as he watched him go. Thank you? What was the old pimp doing thanking him for. He hadn't told him anything.
Had he?
***
Losing family and home hadn't bothered her much. But companions ... now that was a different matter. You come to trust companions. You can pick and choose your companions, but your relations are thrust upon you.
Well she didn't need to worry about relations anymore. But her companion was her soul-mate. And with the year so young she'd just finished updating her place in life now in the new year's diary. Now that was missing too. Two companions, last years and this, both gone ... gone missing. But with the upheaval, the new job and everything maybe that wasn't as suspicious as she was fearing. Too much growing up had made her naturally suspicious though.
And this was her first night in the new job too.
She walked towards the new address with almost a spring in her step. Despite the worries over her diary she had never felt this free for some time. Even the buzz of the neon streetlights made her feel clearheaded. Life was finally beginning to look bearable at last. And she owed it all to him.
As she turned round the side of a tenement building which she knew neighboured her new address she saw a woman some distance ahead of her about to enter the same establishment she was headed to. And entering the same side door she'd been told about in confidence. There was something about that woman's profile, the way she walked. It reminded her of ... No, the dead stayed dead. She was sure of that.
Besides, she'd been shown her mother's body. She chided herself for even thinking the woman ahead looked like-
"Miss Redmond?"
She froze and whipped her head round.
The voice was soft. Too soft and cultured to be trustworthy.
"Don't look so waxy round the gills, my dear, I'm merely saying good evening."
It was then that she realised he had doffed his hat and was walking away into the night, black woollen trench coat, bowler hat and all.
But no man who spoke was true, no man could be trusted. This was no story of faeries, gold and dreams; tales that had been robbed from her youth unlike those of her peers. This was real life, and nothing was said without claims or moves motivated by power or threat.
"Who ... who are you?" she called after him, finding herself backing away towards the safety of the side door of her place of business.
He stopped and looked back at her, eyes looking owlishly out at her from his thick-rimmed glasses, eyes only partly seen beneath his bowler hat and weak street light. "You won't remember me, my dear. I used to be a friend of your grandmother. You may remember me. In a few hours time. And then all you'd need look for is the eyes of the wolf. Then you'll be safe."
And with that enigma, or nonsense, or whatever it was, he was gone.
The night suddenly felt cold, and the pavement beneath her seemingly on the road to nowhere. Tomorrow seemed a long way away again.
The eyes of the wolf? What did that mean?
Pulling up her hood, she turned to claim the life that would be hers.
Up until this point her life had been a maze of moments leading to blind alleys of despair. This time she was sure she was going forward. And she wasn't going to lose her way.
***
The old man slowed to a halt under one streetlight near the shore. The moon had come out and was casting a path over the swirling waters beyond the railing.
He pulled a book out of his deep pockets and leafed through the hand written pages. Black ink had been used throughout. His black-gloved hand ran down the last page to find the final entry. "I have never killed before. But there's a first time for everything I suppose." His index finger tapped that last line.
"The thread of time has drawn a black line," he muttered. "Enough for me to follow."
And he had to follow the line well. For he knew this was more than a battle against the dark side of human nature; it was a race against the crumbling gates of time.
Episode 2
by Steve Lake
"If death is what he wants, then death is what he shall get..."
She was shown into an office by the tall, thin black man who had opened the side door when she'd knocked. He had admitted her without comment, without even barely looking at her, just opened the door and stood aside to admit her entrance. Just like that. Easy.
He was armed. There was a tell-tale bulge beneath his dark jacket at the small of his back. He moved with a predators' grace. No mere doorman/guardian, like the majority of the over-muscled thugs who swaggered outside similar dens. He was more like a bodyguard, and a good one at that, she bet. If he was an example of the sort of protection being offered, she immediately approved.
He didn't knock at the office door. Just opened it up and let her in. If his employer was annoyed by this lack of courtesy, it didn't show. She simply carried on with the conversation she was having over the telephone pressed to her right ear. Her eyes flicked with false disinterest over her to the black man and she made a small shrug with her shoulders as if to say why me?'
The woman appeared to be in her late forties, but such was the nature of her occupation that she was probably at least a decade younger. Maybe more.
She was a good few pounds overweight, judging from the way the chair protested when she shifted her weight, probably due to bad food and no exercise. She had that desk-bound look about her. Her long curly hair was red, but it was a stark, artificial tone, the sort of colour that only came out of a bottle. Her face was heavily made up, thick with rouge and lipstick, but it only barely disguised the lines and wrinkles, making her look more grotesque. Her clothing didn't help either. It would have been more suitable for a woman half her age and a quarter her build - if suitable was the right word describe what she was wearing. Illegal, was possibly a closer description, if only in a public place in broad daylight at any rate.
But, she supposed, she no longer had to worry about looking alluring anymore. She'd gone beyond that line of work.
As it was, she looked and sounded old. Jaded. What was the expression? Ah yeah... world-weary. Considering the world she frequented, that was not surprising.
It would have tired anyone.
Faintly, she heard the murmur of the voice on the other end of the line, and the woman sighed.
"Honey, you know the drill... the customer gets what the customer wants to pay for - so long as he can pay for it. He can? Then he can." She nodded her towards a chair facing her desk, and she sat. The black man remained standing by the door, impassively. Waiting.
Idly, she took in the room while she waited. She'd seen offices like this before. Cheap luxury and plushness. Lots of gaudy red leather, the low lighting hiding the wear and tear. There was a tall, broad bookcase behind the desk, but it looked artificial. Probably a hidden door. A way out or a way in, of some kind. Maybe a nook for an eavesdropper. She wondered if there was anyone behind it now.
The air smelt of stale tobacco, cheap liqour and bargain store perfume, but beneath that miasma was something... rottener. An odour probably only she could detect, because it was an odour probably only she knew.
The odour of her mother's house.
There were two windows in the room; one overlooked the street, but it was veiled by a metallic strip blind that clinked and clanked dully under the breeze produced by the wheezing fan that was vainly attempting to shift the air in the room. The other window was to the right of the desk, and she guessed it was one of those one-way mirror affairs. It too had blinds but they were not drawn; she wished they were, as there were things going on in the room beyond the glass she would have prefered not to have before her gaze. She had to settle for pretending not to notice.
But the woman noticed this and smirked, slightly, as she continued her conversation.
"Okay, maybe a coffin isn't the most practical place to... I know, but if that is what he wants," she repeated slowly, as if talking to a child, "then that is what he shall get, okay Gloria? Now I gotta go."
She put the phone down, stared across at her for a second or two, and then grinned broadly, with teeth too white and too even to be anything other than false.
"Hiya, honey. I'm Mo. You must be..."
"Red. Call me Red."
"Why, sure, honey!" the woman giggled. "Whatever you want!"
"It's not what I want that's important," she warned softly. "It's what HE wants."
Mo's grin faded in an instant, replaced by a hard expression that told her how she'd ever lasted long enough to reach this position in life - such as it was. Beneath that grotesque, gaudy exterior, lurked steel. Cold steel.
But that was how her employer liked his employees. Mo was no exception.
"Fair enough," murmured Mo. She tapped a finger against her lips, narrowed her eyes. Squinting like that gave her a vaguely reptillian aspect.
"You do look kinda familiar," she murmured.
"No I don't."
Mo blinked in surprise at that. Very possibly she wasn't used to being spoken to in this way. Well, tough.
"Now, honey," she drawled with deceptive placidness, "you ought'nt be talkin' to me like that..."
"Oh?" She slipped a hand into her cloak and pulled something out, tossing it on to the desk. "I think you'll find that THIS gives me the right to say whatever I like... to whomever I like."
Mo stared at the item on her desk for a long moment. Then she glanced over her shoulder towards the black man and nodded slightly. "Okay, Mike..."
The black man nodded, still impassive, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind them, leaving them alone. Mo studied her carefully for a moment longer.
"You been working for him long?"
"Long enough." Mind your own business, her eyes said.
"Ah huh." I ain't scared, said Mo's eyes.
"You know the score." Oh yes you are, she flashed back.
"Yeah. I know the score..." Mo's eyes flickered from hers to stare at the scene beyond the one-way mirror. She was scared, all right. She nodded slightly to what was going on, then looked back at her with a knowing smirk. "Do you know what's goin' on?"
She forced herself to look back at what was happening. Looked back at Mo. Sighed.
"If I didn't, would I be here?"
Mo shrugged. "Just you look a little... young."
"I thought that was the trend in this line of work."
Mo snorted. "There is no trend in this line of work, honey. It's just a case of what people want. And what they want," and she prodded the desk before significantly, "I provide."
"For a price."
Mo nodded. "Naturally. Everything has it's price, honey. Just a case of whether or not folk are prepared to meet it." She smirked again, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand to stare at her. "And what's your price, sugar?"
She smiled coldly.
"That's between myself and my - our - employer."
"I need to know so I can-"
"No."
Mo's mouth shut with a snap at the tone of that reply.
"No. You do not need to know. My price has been arranged just between myself and our employer. It will also just be arranged between my employer and... such ever interested parties who are prepared to meet his terms. You are not required to know the details. You-" and she stabbed a finger towards Mo, "are simply my hostess. My... willing hostess."
"Willing, huh?" murmured Mo. Again, her eyes said different.
"Oh yes."
She reached inside her cloak again and pulled something else out and tossed it onto the table. Mo caught it before it rolled off the edge and held it up. A tight roll of banknotes. She took one look at the figure printed on the top one and whistled. The figure was printed all the others too.
"And there will be plenty more where that came from... if you are willing."
Mo glanced from the money to her. Grinned again.
"Honey, for this kinda bread... I'll be as willin' an' able as never before."
"Good." She stood up, scooping up the token she'd earlier tossed onto the desk and putting it back in her pocket. She'd need that again. "Now I believe you have a room for me?"
Mo chuckled and stood too. She looked even worse stood up.
"Of course I have, darlin'! What kinda hostess do you think I am?"
She bit back her reply. She didn't want to antagonise her further. She had too much to do... too much to prepare.
To prepare - for him.
***
The old man prowled.
Anyone watching him would have considered that there was an aimlessness to this prowling, but there wasn't. He knew exactly where he was going.
If not exactly what he was doing. But then, he'd vowed a long time ago to stop doing that. It wasn't nearly so much fun...
Even if twice as dangerous.
The streets were dark and largely empty, frequented only by the kind of people who preferred dark and emptiness. But he bade them little heed, and they bade him little heed. That was the nature of the night.
He plodded along a street, hands behind his back, staring down at the pavement as if searching for something. He walked with an awkward, stiff-legged, shuffling, gait, as if he was normally used to walking with a stick.
An observer might have noticed that this was partly because he seemed to be avoiding the cracks between the paving slabs.
There was a murmur of sound, up ahead. He didn't look up, but his ears pricked.
There, lying against a wall, huddled in old blanket. A vagrant. A street person. He was strumming an old guitar and singing softly, halfway through a song.
"... Every step, of the way, will find us... with the cares, of the world, far behind us..."
The old man came closer, stopped before the vagrant. He was quite a young looking man, with tousled, dark bleached-blonde hair sticking out from beneath a grimy dark woollen cap, and a face full of dark stubble, giving him a handsomely ruffian appearence. He didn't look up from his strumming, just carried on singing, softly.
"We have all... the time... in the world... just for love... nothing more... nothing less... only love..."
The old man snorted, and frowned disapprovingly.
"Indeed," he muttered, and tossed something into the battered guitar case at the vagrant's feet. The vagrant stopped strumming and singing, and looked up at the old man.
He winked.
The old man's frown deepened, then he turned and plodded on his way again.
The vagrant watched him go for a moment, then leaned across and picked up what the old man had thrown in. He studied it for a moment, noting his new instructions, then chuckled and shook his head, tucking the object into his coat, before glancing at the old man's back and giving him a wry salute.
"Thank you, sir..." he murmured.
Then he picked up his guitar and began to sing again, a different song now, his strumming picking up tempo as he did.
"Just dial my number... I got some plans for you... you're in a bad way, and I can help you through..."
The singing drifted faintly teasingly after the old man, following him until he went round a corner and vanished into the night again.
***
Snide was counting his takings when a shadow fell across him. He looked up... and froze, change tinkling through his fingers back into the cash box.
A man filled his vision. A big man, his face shrouded by shadow.
"Good evening," he murmured, in a voice that was low and dark and sinister.
"Er... good... evening," stammered Snide.
"I am looking for... a girl."
Snide tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. Something about the way the guy was looking at him didn't exactly promote the desire to smile. He had to settle for waving a hand around him.
"Well, uh... you come to the right place..."
The man shook his head.
"No."
"Uh... no?"
"No. I am looking for... a particular girl."
He slid something from his dark coat and placed it on the counter before Snide. A photograph. A face.
Snide recognised the face instantly. He swallowed. It was the same face the old guy had been asking after.
The man tapped it with a powerful forefinger. It was an unusually large finger, with a long, narrow, tapering fingernail, more like a talon or a claw than a nail, in fact. And top of the finger was covered in swirls of thick, matted black hair.
"This girl."
"That, uh, girl?"
"Yes..." The man leaned forward a little more so the lower half of his face was revealed by the light, and smiled. It was a big smile, full of big white teeth. Big, white... sharp teeth.
"I am so very anxious to meet her," he purred. "And she, me."
"Well, uh... yeah..."
The man leaned further forward, exposing the rest of his face, so Snide could see his eyes clearly.
The cash box began to jitter wildly between his trembling hands, the changing jingling and clattering.
"Tell me," hissed the man.
Snide told him.
Episode 3
by Mark Simpson
"All men are equal in the depths of the night."
Mo had waddled to the door of her office and called for Mike, who appeared as if by magic in the doorway. The hostess then instructed him to escort Red to her room.
The broad shouldered bodyguard had nodded once, then inclined his head to Red. She took his hint and followed him deeper into her new place of business.
They made their way in silence along a dark corridor. Dusty scarlet velvet curtains hung over the few windows, which were thick with grime. The carpet, also a scarlet colour, was tatty and threadbare. The only decorations were famous prints that dotted the walls, occasionally hiding a peeling patch of wallpaper. Some of the prints were lopsided, as if nobody around the place could be bothered to straighten them.
None of this would have been evident to a casual observer, but Red was far from casual, in anything she did. Her excellent night vision easily picked up the signs of decay as they headed up a narrow staircase. But it didn't surprise her. She had worked in filthier, more run down places than this before. But when she had completed this assignment for her benefactor, she would be moving up in the world. No more backstreet dives for Red then. Only the best would do after this little job.
Up another flight of stairs they went, still not a word exchanged. She had noticed from the outside that this was a big house, but hadn't bothered to count the floors. She began to wonder where exactly Mo had decided to put her 'new girl'.
On the next landing Mike led her across another threadbare carpet to a narrow door. A plaque on the door announced that this was 'The Primrose Parlour'. Red curled her lip.
Mike swung the door open and gestured inside. Red stepped across the threshold, taking in the musty atmosphere and drab interior by the inadequate light of a small table lamp. She turned back to her tall companion.
"Is this the best she can do?"
The man shrugged, quite a feat given his big frame. He turned and started to pull the door closed behind him.
"Tell Mo I'll be making a complaint about the state of this room to our employer."
Mike paused, looking back at her through the narrow gap between door and frame. He smiled, showing two perfect rows of white teeth. Then he finished closing the door and left Red to her own devices.
She surveyed the room once more. With a sigh she decided it would serve her purpose. She slipped off her cloak and reached into her large shoulder bag. Time to prepare for her first 'visitor'.
***
Outside the relative safety of the big house, men were moving in the depths of the night. Men with purpose and other men without.
One such figure that seemed to be moving without purpose was the shambling vagrant busker, who was shuffling along a street, which was sparsely lit, as half the lamps along it were smashed. Wrapped in his dirty blanket, with his guitar hanging down his back, he seemed a pathetic figure.
So it was that when the large man stepped from an alleyway, he almost knocked the poor wretch over in his haste. However, the bulky form, seemingly clothed in shadow, didn't regret the near accident.
"Watch where you're going!" he growled, his eyes flashing amber before stepping around the vagrant and continuing on his way.
"I was," the vagrant murmured, watching with a knowing smile as the powerful figure strode away into the darkness.
***
The old man had paused in his seemingly aimless wanderings. Not that they were aimless of course, but it would have taken a keen mind to deduce the pattern behind them.
Standing under a street lamp, he removed his spectacles and polished them on the white silk scarf around his neck, before replacing them carefully on his nose. Then he reached into an inside pocket of his long black coat to retrieve a slim leather bound book.
He flicked through the pages of the diary. He had only recently reread the last entry, so he skipped back to the last but one and started to read.
"All men are equal in the depths of the night. They are all bastards! All except my benefactor, who has stepped back into my life once more. He looked like he had never been away, despite the fact that it has been some time since we last met. And he has given me a purpose in life, a task to perform. When it is complete I shall be free to make my own way in the world. He will see to that. I shall be so well paid for my services this time that I can buy anything, or anyone, I want. All I have to do is kill.
But that isn't a problem to me. They are only men after all. The more the better as far as I am concerned. All I have to do is go to the address he gave me and wait for the 'victims' to arrive. Before I know it, I shall be living the high life. And the world will have a few less men in it."
Clipped to the bottom of the page was a white piece of card, with a neatly printed address on it. The address of the big house.
The old man sighed. Silly girl, he thought. How could she be taken in so easily? Her grandmother hadn't been that gullible. But then her Grandmother hadn't had the life that young Miss Redmond had.
Slipping the diary back into his pocket, he shuffled away from the lamplight and back into the shadows of the night.
But from the darkness of an alleyway, amber eyes watched the old man's back as he rounded the corner out of sight.
***
The vagrant was standing across the street from the big house. His eyes roamed upwards to a third floor window, where a light was burning but the curtains were firmly closed.
He noticed a side door of the house opening and a man walked up the short flight of steps and out onto the path. The man pulled his collar up and his hat down over his eyes. The watching vagrant saw that the man was of a similar height and build to himself.
His course of action decided, he crossed the street quickly and followed the man round the corner.
They walked for about five minutes, crossing streets and rounding more corners. They seemed to be heading into a derelict area of the city. The man from the house hadn't noticed he was being followed.
The vagrant increased his pace until he had drawn within a few feet of the man. Even though he was hardly making a sound, his quarry couldn't help but notice now that there was someone closing in.
The man turned but as he did so a fist caught him on the point of his jaw. He went down hard and fast, unconscious before he hit the pavement.
The vagrant glanced around, ensuring nobody was watching. He reached under the arms of his victim and dragged him towards a boarded up house.
Releasing his burden, the vagrant reached for the board covering the door. It swung open easily, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Stooping down once more, he pulled the man inside and pushed the door closed again with his foot.
***
The old man paused, as if trying to get his bearings, despite the fact he knew exactly where he was and where he was going. He had an itch at the back of his neck, which could only mean one of two things. Either there was trouble coming or someone was watching him. Maybe even both.
He glanced around himself, as if attempting to discern his location. He was really checking for hidden watchers, but there was nobody obvious. But that didn't mean a thing. It could easily be someone experienced enough to avoid detection, even by someone like him.
Sighing, he set off once more. If there was someone watching or following him, he would know soon enough. At the moment he had other problems concerning his mind.
***
The vagrant left the derelict house very different from how he had arrived. He seemed taller, because he wasn't half stooping any more. The guitar and filthy blanket had gone. He was now dressed in the suit of the man he had been following. He finger combed his short, dirty blond hair into place as he pulled the board/door closed. He bent and retrieved a key from under a nearby stone and locked up behind him.
His victim was still alive, though he wouldn't be waking up any time soon. When he did, he would find he was bound and gagged. And in his underwear.
As the former vagrant retraced his steps through the murky streets, hands thrust deep into his pockets, he whistled the tune he had been strumming when he had encountered the old man earlier. Just before he got his new instructions.
***
The old man studied an electronic device that he had retrieved from another pocket of his coat. According to the small screen, which reflected sickly green light onto his face, things were getting worse. The itch on the back of his neck earlier had been correct. Events were spiralling out of his control.
"There's less time than I thought," he muttered to himself, sliding the device back into the pocket. Frowning, he rounded the corner onto the street where the house was located.
Before he could cross the road, he observed a short, portly man walking quickly towards the dimly lit side entrance of the house.
The old man hung back, watching from the shadows as the man trotted down the short flight of stone steps from street level and rang the bell. The door was opened by someone unseen and the visitor slipped swiftly inside.
Stepping from the shadows, the old man's frown deepened. Then he saw a new figure rounding the corner and heading for the house.
It was the busker he had encountered earlier, in his freshly 'borrowed' suit, striding confidently towards the house. Outside, the younger man paused and his eyes strayed once more to the third floor window before he too headed for the side entrance.
The old man smiled. It was good that he would have his operative in place before the final act.
***
Mo greeted the man who had bustled into the lounge. She recognised the short, bulky form instantly as one of her regular visitors.
"Good evening," she said, taking his coat and hat. "George, isn't it?"
She knew of course that George wasn't the man's real name. Anybody who kept up to date with the news could have told that much. But for the duration of his dealings under this roof he was George.
"That's right," he replied softly, his grey moustache twitching.
"And what is your pleasure tonight, George?" Mo inquired. She smiled slightly to herself. Of course she remembered all of George's usual, or rather unusual, requirements, but this was all part of the game.
He lowered his voice further, looking around as if expecting to be overheard. "I hear that you've had a new arrival."
Now Mo smiled openly. "We have indeed. A nice young lady, just ready to assist you in unwinding from the day's troubles."
George returned her smile weakly. "Sounds perfect. Where can I find her?"
"Third floor. The Primrose Parlour."
"And the usual rate?"
Mo's smile faltered slightly, remembering her conversation with Red earlier and what they had said about their 'employer'.
"We'll sort out money when you're finished," she said quickly.
George nodded. With a spring in his step he set off up the stairs, knowing exactly where he was going from experience.
Mo watched him, any humour drained from her face. She hoped that she wouldn't regret what happened this night.
***
The old man watched until the former vagrant had rung the ball and been admitted, then slipped out of the shadows and crossed the road. He skirted the house and found an alley that led round the back.
Before he stepped into the alley, he looked round. His neck was itching again and he could have sworn there was someone watching him, but no matter how hard he stared into the shadows, he couldn't see anyone.
So it was that he missed the cool amber eyes fixed on him as he stepped into the alleyway that led to the back of the house.
***
Mo looked the new visitor up and down. He wasn't a regular customer, indeed she couldn't remember ever seeing him before tonight. As her eyes returned to his face, she wondered what he was doing here at all. He surely didn't need their services with his looks.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely.
"I hope so," he said with a cocky grin. "Or at least point me in the direction of someone that can."
Mo smiled tightly. "Anything particular you require?"
The young man nodded. "I believe you have a new girl starting work tonight. She sounds exactly what I'm looking for."
"Are you sure? We have plenty of other girls. And our 'new arrival' is busy right now, with a customer."
"That's alright, I'll wait."
"As you wish," Mo replied, gesturing to one of the plushly upholstered armchairs. The young man dropped into it with an easy grace and crossed his legs.
***
In the alleyway behind the house, the old man had found a back gate. It squeaked noisily as he swung it open. He winced, trying to close it carefully.
A cat meowed at him from its place on top of a dustbin. He scowled at it and the cat jumped down and trotted away, hissing.
Looking around himself, the old man found himself in a dingy yard, with rubbish piled around the dustbins and crates of empty alcohol bottles stacked unsteadily in a corner. There was a simple looking door set into the wall before him that obviously led into the house.
He had just crossed the yard and laid his hand on the door handle when a scream split the night. A scream wrenched from a male throat.
Episode 4
by Kenny Davidson
It was as the locked door was brought crashing down off its hinges that the Minister screamed. He'd heard the thump of a fist on the wood beforehand and wrenched his eyes away from the young lady's petite bosom to glare with terror at the barrier to the outside world. Then an adventurous looking young man in black suit and ruffian blonde features physically forced his way into the room. Instinctively, the Minister whipped his head round to look in disgust - as much personal as directed - at the woman who shared his compromising situation. And therein lay the reason for his second scream in as many seconds.
The naked young redhead was also staring with vile anger at the newcomer, but it wasn't her eyes that made him balk in terror. It as her teeth, or rather the two sharply pointed fangs that were showing among the upper row of her teeth. And as he screamed at her he also noticed that there 'was' something odd about her eyes. A wild, animal-like glow that - like the teeth - had not been there seconds before.
Then he found himself being hauled off of her, one firm hand digging into his fatty shoulders, another hooked round his thigh. Before he realised what was happening he had been lifted into the air and flung bodily to the side of the room.
"Perhaps Minister, you would like to spend a little more time with your family now," quipped the intruder.
He was vaguely aware of how debilitating it was to be thrown anywhere when one's trousers were still shackled around one's ankles. Then his head collided with the wall, or something, and the resulting pain washed everything to blackness.
***
Momentarily distracted by the scream, the old man let his guard down, and the amber eyes pounced. But as the man turned expecting too late the attack of fur and claws, instead he found himself looking down at a large dog circling his feet. The dog - or wolf, rather - was licking his old-fashioned black brogues. The man chuckled softly with both surprise and not a little relief. "My shoes need polishing do they? Can't quite see your reflection, can you?"
The wolf looked up at him, two sets of intelligent eyes connecting.
"I'm sorry," the man added, as if he'd caused offence.
The wolf looked up at the lit bedroom window and tensed expectedly.
The man looked up also, clearing his throat softly. "Yes indeed; the hour of the wolf is indeed at hand."
***
The blood was thumping in Red's head, and she had been robbed her night's work. Two reasons to seek vengeance. She wanted to shout at the intruder, but speech was no longer possible. The transition could not be stopped and she had to quickly pounce onto her four legs, to set her body in the best position for a killer attack.
She was seeing red now too. Red eyes attempting to burn into the intruder. The man was quick. He had already armed himself with an upturned chair as a barrier.
She turned her head to look at where that night's prey had been thrown. He still looked alive, if unconscious. That meant he could still be dispatched. But the intruder stole his moment with almost inhuman swiftness. She turned too late to avoid the impact of the chair across her side.
With a yelp, Red leapt off the bed. The man was dangerous, and extremely sharp. And she was in pain. Turning to the window, and the moonlit view outwith, she took the one action the man would not expect. She leapt for it, the impact of the dive shattering the thin glass and issuing a gust of cold air into the hot room.
***
Mike, the big black bodyguard, had been the first to arrive at Red's room, where he found a tall athletic man staring at the shattered window. Another man, old and more in keeping with the types of client this place attracted, lay slumped against the wall. Of Red there was no sign.
As the man turned to face him, Mike squared his shoulders to block the doorway completely.
***
Red sailed from the window and into the darkness with sickening speed, landing softly among strong smelling bags and boxes. A rubbish collection. Bleeding and hurt, she quickly looked round to find a pair of amber eyes meeting hers. Amber eyes, and those of a man behind the other wolf. She stiffened. That man. She recognised that man.
What was it he had said? "You won't remember me, my dear. I used to be a friend of your grandmother. You may remember me. In a few hours time."
Amber started growling, obviously protecting the man. He was clearly important. A leader perhaps - but a man as a pack leader? Or was he the same as her, a child of the night?
The man leaned down to whisper to Amber, and then vanished into the house via the back door. Amber stood there, body tensed.
The pain was beginning to intrude on her senses. Too many cuts to face another confrontation. And cuts meant ... needles. Suddenly she found herself issuing a lonely howl, nose in the air as if aiming at the moon.
Then she was off, heading for the shore, to wash her wounds and recover.
Amber eyes remained as sentry to the house.
***
"Ah, I suppose you're the guard dog, are you?" the man asked, levelly. "Do you have a name?"
Mike folded his big arms, impassively.
"I've got a name," continued the man. "But you can call me Captain." He paused. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
In response, Mike smiled his toothy grin, before opening his mouth and letting his long thin tongue fold out. It was a dog's tongue in a man's body.
The man seemed surprised. "So you're one of those..."
Mike suddenly lunged for him, but the man sidestepped, and jumped over the bed. Mike rammed the side of the bed, pushing it at the intruder's legs, blocking his immediate exit. The man disappeared below the bed, and suddenly the bed was being flung upwards in Mike's direction; doubtless on the heels of the intruder's boots. With a grin, Mike dived onto the bed, intent on damaging the intruder's legs, but the bed hammered floorboard just ahead of him. Clumsily he climbed up again, but already the man had swung underneath the bed to escape from the other side, and now he was nearer the door.
"Maybe you're not one of those," the intruder commented, "otherwise you'd have changed by now."
Mike growled, the sound gurgling from the back of his throat.
"Wait a moment," the man announced, dramatically, putting his hand into the front pocket of the suit jacket. "I've brought you a little present." Mike saw a glint of cylindrical steel and stiffened. "It didn't come with the suit; I brought this here myself on purpose." The man put the cylinder to his mouth, and blew.
Suddenly a sound so painful assailed Mike that he clamped his heavy hands over his ears and doubled up.
***
The old man walked purposefully down the thinly carpeted corridor, the hat and gloves still firmly attached as if he did not intend staying long. A door further down the hall opened and a scantily clad blonde girl popped a worried head into the corridor. She looked spooked by the sight of the old man, before hiding her reaction behind a 'professional' smile.
The man doffed his hat automatically but did not stop. "Don't worry my dear, everything is quite alright. Just some rather..." he coughed slightly, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying this, "demanding clients on the upper floor." His eyes closed for a couple of seconds of self reproach, but it was important that the scene he was approaching did not become too overpopulated too soon. The hour had not yet arrived.
***
The young Captain made to walk out of the room. The room that he had intruded upon and caused a wolf to escape from, and a man to collapse in deafened agony. But something made him hesitate just before the threshold. He backed up quickly and spotted a black drape on the wall. Pulling it silently down, he found it revealed a mirror behind it. Clearly the 'woman' had had a modicum of modesty about her work if this mirror was what he suspected it was. He turned and flung the black drape out of the door in front of him.
As if on cue, a middle-aged woman in red leather crashed a metal fire extinguisher onto the drape, realising too late that there was no body within the fabric. The Captain dived forward and lay a small punch on the woman's jaw sending her spinning onto the floor, the extinguisher clanking to the floor by her feet, and her wig of artificial red hair slipping a foot of so from her bald head.
His hearing heightened with adrenaline, he turned to the end of the corridor to see whom the very quiet footsteps belonged to.
"The boss is going to be very interested to meet you, young un," croaked the woman.
"And I will be very interested to meet your boss," replied the old man, who walked almost silently to stand over the woman.
"Will the employer be in the building?" asked the Captain of the man, while still crouched on the floor by the extinguisher.
"No," replied the man conspiringly. "He'll be out looking for his children. But I'll wait. Thank you Captain Vaidya, you may now take the Minister back to a place of safety."
Vaidya stood. "Yes, Sir."
The old man visibly winced.
Vaidya suppressed a smile at the man's reaction to reverence. "Doctor," Vaidya corrected himself.
"And Captain, while the wolf at the back door is on our side, and has been warned to give you leave, you should be aware that the Minister is not yet out of danger while he is in this vicinity. The wolves are running tonight."
Vaidya nodded his understanding before going back into the room, carrying the extinguisher with him. There was an animal-like gurgling sound, as if a mute man were about to attack. The sound of something heavy impacting on something hard followed, then the impact of a heavy body falling to the floor.
"No you don't big man," Vaidya was heard to say. "That should keep you sleeping for a few hours."
The Doctor grimaced. The woman groaning from the floor distracted him from his associate's violence in the room beyond. He glowered down at the wretched figure at his feet. "That poor little old lady routine is not going to work on me, 'Madam'. Get up. Your employer is paying you good money to keep this sham of a place looking like the convincing faade that it is. I suggest you start covering up for this unfortunate incident."
Vaidya came out of the room, carrying the unconscious Minister over his shoulder. The politician was once more attired in his suit, albeit not with the care and attention he would probably have afforded himself.
"Does his career matter in where I leave him tonight, Sir?" the Captain asked.
"No politician's career ever has a bearing on the great scheme of things," observed the Doctor dryly. "This one is no exception. We just need to make sure that next week's incumbent of his position is of their own ... stock."
Vaidya nodded and left.
Mo had gathered up her red wig, and unashamedly reapplied it to her head. "So you're a Doctor?" she said. "You and Snide together, eh? So tell me Doctor, is he your boy?"
The Doctor paused as if considering his response. "I am responsible for him if that's what you mean, but I do not expect an expenses claim from yourself for his actions tonight. Now if you don't mind, I am not in the habit of dealing with subordinates, so I'll let you get on with your job while I await the arrival of your ... employer."
***
Red licked the cold night water at the shore. The moon cast a path over the billowing water, and here she felt peace. Peace from assault, responsibility, and most of all, from time. Suddenly a large shape overshadowed her. She turned her head slowly to face the more familiar amber eyes in her life. The figure was man-sized and stood on two legs, but she knew those amber eyes as her own dear handsome benefactor. She lay down and let him bend over her to lick at her wounds.
"You must heal soon, young lady," whispered her benefactor. "The victim will be easy prey this night. And our survival strategy has earned some impressive attention. We are needed back at the house, you and I. For this is the one night when everything that fate stores, is ours for the shaping."
Episode 5
by Steve Lake
It didn't take Vaidya long to deal with the Minister and return to the house. He left the man sitting in the middle of the concourse of the city's main rail terminal. Even at this hour, the place hummed with life, and even the enemy they faced tonight would have to consider very carefully before making a move against him. It was too open, too public; and Vaidya had ensured the man was insensible enough not to go wandering, at least until they were ready to allow him to go wandering. And by way of making doubly sure, he had made a phone call, and called in an old debt. Now the Minister was never less than six feet from protection, or at least escape. Of course there had been grumblings - 'what the hell kind of time do you call this?' etc - but it was a large debt, and while this person had their faults (how else could they have owed him?) they never forgot a favour.
There was such a thing as honour, even in Vaidya's chosen profession.
As he approached the house, he was more than slightly surprised to see the Doctor lurking on the pavement outside. He looked curiously agitated, almost uncomfortable, which was most unlike him.
"I feel the need for some air," he explained, giving a tiny but significant nod of his head towards the house. Vaidya offered a small smile of understanding.
"Not exactly a healthy environment, is it?"
The old man gave a small shrug of his shoulders, and started to shuffle down the street. "Let's prowl," he murmured. "I'm growing a little weary of this gentleman's tardiness. Perhaps we can prod some life into proceedings."
Vaidya raised his eyebrows. "What about the house?"
The Doctor flicked a glance towards the alley. Vaidya caught a hint of glowing amber eyes.
"Amber will maintain vigilence. I am sure, if anything happens, he will let us know." He motioned Vaidya forward. "You have transport? My feet..." and he stamped his feet a little, staring down at his shoes with faint irritation, "these shoes, are new, and not quite broken in."
Vaidya grinned. "Want me to go fetch your slippers?"
The Doctor narrowed his eyes. "Do, and I shall take one to you, young man! You're not too old, you know..."
"Corporal punishment is illegal in this state," declared Vaidya with a twinkle in his eye.
"Only if they catch me," grumbled the Doctor, waving him onwards. "And I have no intention of being caught this night - by anyone - or anything..."
***
Red prowled too.
Her wounds were healing, now, after the attentions of her benefactor. Now she loped through the night, keeping to the shadows, but tensed, ready...
She was heading in the general direction of the house, but she didn't want to go back straight away. There was something she needed to do. She still felt anger and frustration at the manner in which her prey had been stolen from her, and knew she couldn't afford to allow that to spill out. Not bearing in mind who she was ranged against.
No, she needed an outlet. Something to relieve that frustration.
It didn't take long to find.
She saw them before they saw her. She watched them for a moment, gaging them, ensuring they wouldn't be too dangerous to take on.
Then she made her move.
She stepped out of the shadows and padded towards them across the empty lot. She was clad only in a grimy blanket she'd found on the shore, naked underneath. She made sure this was quite visible. Any distraction helped.
One of the targets finally noticed her and tapped a comrade on the arm. There was a whistle - a wolf whistle, ironically enough - and then a voice rippled out mockingly:
"Hey baby... wassup?"
There was giggling, and the rest of them emerged from the doorway where they had been squatting, smoking and drinking and chatting. A faint whiff of marijuana and Thunderbird wine accompanied them as they swaggered from the shadows. There were only four of them, Latino of some sort, no older than late teens, their stupid, dull faces still speckled with acne. They were dressed similarly; denims and heavy workboots that hade never seen a minutes' honest toil; gang apparel. On the backs of their denim vests were their emblems; Red appreciated the irony of them too, for the name of this crew was 'The Wolverines'. She was would have been surprised if any of them could have told her what one was. But she wasn't here for conversation.
She stopped, as they came out and started to circle her, making mewling and chuckling noises, sizing her up, taunting, playing, teasing. Pack mentality. She could understand that. Expected it. But they obviously didn't regard her as much of a menace.
More fool them.
"Lookin' for some action... baby?" one of them drawled, and the others tittered.
Red smiled. Something about that smile seemed to irritate them.
"Watchoo grinnin' at, bitch?" one of them snapped, nervously. Maybe they were starting to realise that any girl wandering more or less naked through the city at this time of night couldn't be entirely what she seemed.
Sorry, boys. Too late now.
Red's smile turned into a grin, giving them the full benefit of her sharp shiny teeth. A collective gasp went up, and they all took a step backwards.
"Oh, @#%$-" one of them began.
She fell on them.
***
"Ta da!"
Vaidya stopped before his current mode of transport. The Doctor eyes it dubiously.
"A police car," he murmured, faintly disapproving.
"Borrowed for the night," Vaidya winked, patting the hood of the big black and white painted cruiser. "Don't worry, it's kosher."
The Doctor sighed. "So much for covert."
Vaidya frowned. "Well, it seemed to me to the best way to get around this place unmolested, as it were... and I can also tune into the police band. Find out what's going down."
The Doctor just sighed again and shook his head, plodding over to the passenger side and opening the door before slipping into the seat stiffly and closing it behind him. Vaidya came round and slipped into the drivers seat. The Doctor gazed around the interior with a faintly reproachfully air, but Vaidya knew not to say anything further. He could tell when the old man wasn't happy, and he wasn't happy. So he kept quiet.
So much for improvisation, he thought sourly. I thought that was what he liked?
There was a large aluminium flask at the Doctor's feet. He picked it up and shook it hopefully at Vaidya. "Tea?"
Vaidya glanced at him - and winced. "No, coffee. Sorry, I keep forgetting."
"Oh dear," said the Doctor in that tone of mild disappointment of his that meant he was really disappointed. He carefully put the flask back down and reached into his pocket and produced a white paper bag full of sweets. He popped a bullseye into his mouth and started sucking on it glumly, staring into the night with the sort of expression one reserved for sitting in rain storm in the middle of a Test Match, after having travelled a hundred miles to see it.
Pointedly, he didn't offer Vaidya a sweet.
Vaidya cleared his throat. "Let's, erm, see what's going on then, shall we?"
The Doctor just slurped on his sweet. Vaidya took that for a yes and switched the radio on. It crackled loudly, making the old man wince, and his expression darkened to one that said not only was it raining and he'd travelled a long way, but a gang of drunken henrys had just sat behind him and were singing ribald songs in a very bad key and spilling lager on his coat.
The police dispatcher sounded bored, in that way only police dispatchers could at that time of night. So little did her intonation change as she made her reports that the pair of them almost missed what they were listening for.
"... corner of third and ninth. Report of a group of youths being attacked by a wild animal. Unit 17, please respond and investigate..."
The Doctor and Vaidya glanced at each other.
"That's only a couple of blocks from here," said Vaidya.
The Doctor nodded, and tapped the dashboard. "In that case, I believe the expression is 'let's roll'," he said. Then he smiled, brightly: "You know, I've always wanted to say that."
Vaidya just shook his head, and gunned the engine into life.
***
Officer Janelle Mantez was getting pretty sick and tired of this beat. She supposed, because of the nature of the people who lived in this sector, and because of the nature of her appearence - latin American stock, brown skin - she got it. But her Spanish was, at best, lousy, and she felt little kinship with what she supposed her superiors considered 'her race'. As far as she was concerned, everyone was the same. And she treated everyone the same. With equal contempt.
Especially her partner. Bodin was new, barely months out of the academy, but full of that self-righteous 'I Am Going To Make A Difference' attitude, which had worn off of Janelle about six months after she'd started to the job. Six years, two failed promotions, one six week stay in hospital thanks to a 'typical' Saturday night brawl later, Janelle had come to loathe that kind of optimism and enthusiam. Couldn't the guy see what was going on around him? How the hell did he think he was going to make a difference? @#%$...
And he wasn't a Chicano. He was middle-class whitebread stock, pure 100% WASP. The closest he'd probably ever come to this kind of society was a fortnights' vacation in Mexico City. So why the hell had they stuck him with her? He'd been with her two weeks now, ever since her last partner came down with peritonitis. Too much lousy street food bolted down between calls. Too many after hours JDs on the rocks. Now everytime she got a stomach cramp, she wondered if she were going the same way. Jesus... as if things weren't bad enough.
He was burbling on about hospitals and volunteer services - like he'd have the energy to even THINK of doing that kind of crap after he'd been on the night shift long enough - when the call came through.
"Wild animal?" he repeated dubiously, replacing the handset. Janelle just shrugged.
"Probably a dog-fight gone wrong. Maybe someone's Rottweiler got loose. @#%$... knowing our luck, the @#%$ is probably rabid."
Bodin winced at her use of profanity, but didn't say anything. She'd found out he was a Born-Again, and didn't exactly believe in cussin' and swearin', which was pretty damn stupid, considering. She always felt you had to be pretty screwed up to still believe in God in a place like this. Janelle only truly believed in two things; that a hollow-point 9mm slug could stop just about anything from a range of twelve feet, and that life was a @#%$.
"Gangs round here use dogs, then?" he asked hesitantly as she swung the cruiser into the location and started to look for somewhere to park up. Friggin' streets were always packed, even at this hour... and she'd catch hell if she blocked the road. Always one @#%$ looking through his curtains ready to complain - 'how's an ambulence going to get through?' they'd bleat. It was never like on @#%$ TV, where they just pulled up straight away, got out, bagged the bad guys and went home to the applause of their commanding officer. These days, by the time you got parked up, the bastards had fled the scene and you spent a weary hour prowling round jumping at shadows before going back to get chewed out for your lack-of response time.
Thanks, boss.
@#%$, they use just about anything... knew of a group who used to keep a sack of @#%$ sewer rats, and throw 'em at people."
"Good lord!" exclaimed Bodin, and Janelle scowled. What kind of an idiot used 'good lord' as a swear term? Jesus...
Finally she found a place and pulled up. "Bring the shot," she snapped, jerking her head towards the pump-action clipped between the seats. Bodin complied, handling the weapon like he thought he was in a @#%$ Charles Bronson movie. Save me from frigging heroes, puh-leeze...
They advanced across the empty lot, that led into the back of an abandoned store of some sort.
"Doors open," pointed out Bodin.
"I saw," snapped Janelle. @#%$, that meant they were inside... she fiddled with the radio pinned to her breast, making sure it worked. Janelle was never afraid to call in back up, even when not even strictly necessary. The city didn't pay her enough for even the smallest risks.
They went inside, flicking on their flashlights. It revealed a broad open space lined with empty metal shelving. Smelled like it had been abandoned some time. Businesses didn't last five minutes round here, legit ones anyway, and most of these stores stayed empty for months before some sorry @#%$ chanced their arm for a few weeks, until getting held up by some 13 year old with an Uzi every other night got a little friggin' tiresome. To say nothing of the less than helpful attitude of the local PD, ha ha...
No, no sign of life whatsoever. That suited her fine.
"Left and right," she murmured, indicating the path they should take. "Stay in earshot. Any problem, sing out - or shoot."
"Er, right."
He didn't look so Charles Bronson anymore. They never did when it came to the genuine prospect of gunplay. The only thing that bothered Janelle about it anymore was the paperwork. Every round had to be accounted for... like they didn't have enough to do.
He scuttled to the left, she the right. She cast her flashlight around warily in her left hand, kept her pistol in her right. First sign of anything and... pow. Happened before to her; a perp ripping off a store just like this, came out of nowhere with a .38. That was when she found her faith in hollow point. Got a commendation for that. She would have prefered a cash bonus instead of a lousy bit of paper and a handshake and a @#%$-eating grin from the Chief, but that wasn't the way, was it?
The torch light gleamed wetly off something on the floor, and she froze.
Blood. A lot of blood. Very fresh, very recently spilled.
Terrific.
"Bodin?" she hissed. "Bodin, get your ass over here!"
It lead in a trail deeper into the store. She could see other things as well as she edged along it; shredded clothes, a ruined boot; a tacky gold crucifix on a heavy gold neck chain, the links snapped as if it had been torn from the neck it had been around. A lot more blood.
Whimpering. Softly, from someone just up ahead. She groped for her radio, trying to use it and hold her pistol at the same time. She'd never got the hang of it. Where was her @#%$ useless partner?
"Bodin! BODIN!"
A whisper of movement behind her. She turned, expecting to see her partner...
But instead, there was an old man in a dark coat and dark hat, pale face, thick framed glasses covering dark eyes... too dark.
"Good evening," he said mildly. Cultured English accent.
Janelle jerked her pistol up to point at him, radio forgotton. "Who the hell are you?" she yelled.
He raised a hand, placatingly. His eyes seemed to gleam beneath the glow of her flashlight, and suddenly Janelle found she couldn't tear her eyes from them. The lenses of the glasses seemed to magnify them, somehow, make them seem so much larger than they naturally were.
Suddenly this guy didn't seem very natural at all.
"Allow me to explain," he murmured, with a small, almost apologetic smile. "If I may," he added politely.
"Ahh... yeah... sure..." she heard herself murmur.
He blinked. She blinked too, and then -
***
When she opened her eyes, she found she was sitting back in the cruiser. Bodin was shaking her arm.
"Mantez? Mantez?"
"Huh?"
"You okay?"
"What? Uh, yeah... yeah, I think..." She stared at him, frowned. He looked as bewildered as she felt. "You okay?" she asked, in a rare show of concern.
"Uh, yeah... I think so too."
She licked her lips, looked around. They were parked just outside the lot, the lot to the store they'd just... just...
"Did we just go in there?" she asked.
Bodin glanced towards the store, frowned. "Uh, yeah."
"Did we... uh... what did we find?"
Nothing, a voice seemed to whisper from nowhere.
"Nothing," said Bodin, a fraction later.
Janelle blinked for a moment. "Good. That... that was what I figured."
"Yeah," nodded Bodin, almost to himself. "Yeah, nothing." He looked at her and smiled. "Nothing at all."
"Good." She smiled back, then switched on the engine. "Let dispatch know, then we'll go eat. You hungry?"
"Like a wolf," grinned Bodin.
The cruiser pulled off into the night, and away. Later that evening, Janelle Mantez and her eager partner helped deliver a baby boy to a 14 year old crack addict in a stinking tenament block not very far from the store, because the paramedics wouldn't go into the area because they kept being used as target practice by the local juveniles. They couldn't shoot back, after all.
Bizarrely, there was a newsie present who took their picture as they came out, Janelle cradling the bawling infant, already in the first stages of withdrawl, in her arms, and it turned up on page five of the local rag.
Janelle got chewed out by the Chief because she wasn't smiling in the picture, which according to him displayed a very negative portrait of his police department.
She only just stopped herself from asking what the hell it was she supposed to smiling about.
You didn't pose that sort of question - did you?
***
The Doctor and Vaidya had split up too. They knew the girl was still in the building somewhere, they just didn't know where.
"Of course," the Doctor had said as he climbed stiffly out of the car, "this could all be some sort of deception on his part."
Vaidya just shrugged.
"Doc, if I learnt anything from being in your presence, it was that one should expect to walk into a trap every five minutes."
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, I've improved over the years, then?"
Vaidya winked. "Like a fine old wine, my friend."
"Hmmm. Less of the old, if you may," he replied sardonically, eyes twinkling in that way only his ever did.
The presence of the two cops were irritating, as both men had hoped not to involve anybody even vaguely official. Official meant questions, and questions meant investigations, "and that," declared the Doctor, "simply is not on."
So first they had to dispense with them. That done, they got on with their mission.
Vaidya crept along the rows of shelving, hands clenched into fists. On his own, he would have carried a weapon, but he knew how the Doctor disapproved of such things, so out of courtesy he hadn't carried one. Truth be told, he was just as lethal without one, a fact the Doctor knew but would certainly never acknowledge. Vaidya still found that attitude odd, under the circumstances, but he never questioned it. He rarely questioned him at all, in fact. It would have been... ungracious, considering.
There was a noise somewhere ahead of him. Groaning. Someone in pain - considerable pain. One of the girls' victims, probably. He, and the Doctor, didn't believe she'd actually go so far as to kill whoever it was she'd attacked. No; the Doctor had explained that that particular function was being saved, and Vaidya knew only too well who it was being saved for.
As it was, it left them with the probability of having to look after several wounded people. How one managed that without going through official channels was something the Doctor hadn't yet explained. Well, not even he could have an answer to every problem straight away...
Vaidya found the victim curled beneath one of the shelves. From the glow of his penlight, Vaidya could tell the youth - no older than a boy, certainly - had been badly mauled, clothing and flesh torn with equally ferocity, but without sufficient violence to merit serious injury. A definite case of worse than it looked, which he was sure was the intention.
He hunkered down and peered at the wounded boy. He had his arms curled around his head for protection, didn't seem aware of Vaidya's presence. The Time Lord reached in and tapped the boy on the leg; he flinched and cried out.
"Easy, easy!" Vaidya soothed. "I'm here to help... just tell me where she went, huh? Just tell me-"
The shelf above him creaked only a fraction of a second before his danger sense jangled, and he hurled himself sideways just as she fell upon him from above. Sharp claws and teeth raked at the back of his neck, and he surprised himself by yelling out, before rolling over and over and kicking out. His feet connected and she vanished again, into the darkness.
Vaidya got shakily to his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. He winced at the stickiness he felt there; blood. He hadn't been quite quick enough.
"Slowing up," he muttered, stooping to pick up his light. Behind him, the boy started sobbing louder, disturbed by the sudden violence. "Oh, shut up," he hissed bad-temperedly. Pain never worked for his compassion, especially his own.
Something came rattling to ground to his right and he broke into a jog towards the sound, light beam flicking across the room. A shadow flitted across it, and vanished. Vaidya paused, allowing his senses to tune in again. He frowned, still rubbing at his neck. This wasn't proving as easy as he'd hoped...
"It should be working now," murmured a voice behind him. He spun round, and there she was, leaning against a shelf behind him. How she got there was a testament to her lupine abilities. He kept his voice light and level as he advanced towards her.
"Oh yes? And what might that be?"
She raised a hand. The light beam caught on the needle that jutted from the tip of its index finger.
Vaidya froze.
"What was in it?" he whispered.
She smiled, showing all her teeth in all their natural glory. But strangely, the sight didn't bother him.
Quite the opposite.
"You're about to find out," she purred.
She slinked towards him, pale skin luminous beneath the light beam. She'd discarded the blanket, and though Vaidya tried not to look... he found he couldn't help it. Something was...
Wrong.
He stumbled backwards, tried to call out, but his feet seemed to tangle together, and he fell. There was a blur of motion and she was there, catching him, lowering him to the ground.
He tried to fight, found he couldn't.
Worse, he found he didn't want to.
She pushed him to the floor, settled across him, pressing him down, her face - those teeth - bare milimetres from his. She was still smiling, but when she spoke, it was in soothing, relaxing tones.
"Don't fight it," she whispered. "Let it work. Let it release that part of you you've denied for so long... embrace it... as I embrace you."
With that, she pressed her mouth to his, and a great darkness descended upon him.
But dimly, before he passed out, he heard something howling...
That something was him.
***
The Doctor straightened up with a grunt from the unconscious form at his feet. Another of the youths. Torn and shredded, just like the other one he'd found, and in a state of deep shock. The Doctor wasn't in the least surprised.
"But what will I do with you?" he murmured, shaking his head.
"Why do anything?" a voice rasped behind him. "Even by human standards, they are quite worthless."
The Doctor smiled tightly, and nodded, knowingly, but didn't turn round. He knew who it was.
"Everyone has a worthiness. No matter how apparently insignificant, weak, corrupt, or wicked... everyone means something. Even these unfortunates."
A heavy sigh. "You always were a romantic, weren't you?"
"Always. So, you did come, after all."
"You expected me?" Mild surprise.
"Where she went, I surmised you'd follow."
"How perceptive."
"Indeed."
He turned round. The figure before him was massive, though most of its bulk remained shrouded in shadow - as was its way.
"This won't do, you know," he said, in the manner of a school master reprimanding a pupil for a particularly naughty prank. "This won't do at all."
"You dare would lecture me about the merits of right and wrong?"it hissed in mocking disbelief, before breaking into a thick, throaty bubbling laugh. "Oh, this is indeed a unique evening!"
The Doctor's eyes turned to flint. "Unique, indeed, as it shall never be repeated."
"Oh yes? I believe the expression is, says you."
The Doctor nodded grimly. "Indeed. Says I. Now then," he sniffed, "let's set to putting an end to this debacle, shall we? My time is precious, as much as yours."
"No, old friend... no. My time is infinitely more precious. And you of all people should know why."
"The same applies to you. You know why I cannot allow this."
"And you know why I must attempt it. Impasse."
"No," the Doctor shook his head slowly but sadly. "No, not an impasse. You cannot win," he said, stressing the last two words heavily. "Cannot."
"Oh? Look..."
A mighty hand flicked out from the darkness and a talon extended from it. The Doctor followed the path of where it was pointing, narrowed his eyes owlishly at what appeared.
Vaidya, and the girl. He was was leading her by the hand, towards him, head bowed, face seemingly creased in concentration. She was wearing his jacket, floated inside it, looking pale and huddled beneath it, supine, beaten.
A small smile of relief graced the Doctors' lips.
"See?" he murmured.
But the figure simply laughed.
"No... you see."
At that, Vaidya raised his head. Grinned.
His mouth was full of fangs. His eyes glowed amber in the dark.
Then he threw back his head and howled...
Episode 1 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 2 by Steve Lake
Episode 3 by Mark Simpson
Episode 4 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 5 by Steve Lake
Episode 6 by Kenny Davidson
Episode 7 by Steve Lake
Episode 8 by Gareth Preston
Completed
Warning - This story contains adult themes that some readers may find upsetting.
Episode 1
by Kenny Davidson
I remember with great affection the man who murdered my mother.
Murder is simple, like the sudden jab of a needle administered by the better nurses. It is also far less painful that the slow deliberate incision of fear and contempt. My mother brought too many men like that into our house, and it was my room that, in the dead of night, they invaded. And not just my room.
My house was no longer a prison after that. The streets became my home, and my life was funded by the 'skills' I'd been forced to learn at home. However, at least I was now being paid for those services, and I had an element of control.
Today my life has taken a different path again. He came back into my life. My benefactor. The man who murdered my mother. He offered me a job. The clientele would be the same as before. Even the job will appear similar. But the pay will be far better, as will the protection. You see, the services will be slightly different. I listen to the clients instructions, begin to facilitate, but my main job description will supersede any instructions that the client provides. My employer's instruction will be paramount. The clients sent to my room are not to leave alive.
I have never killed before. But there's a first time for everything, I suppose.
***
Snide watched as the old man approached the booth with trepidation. With his black woollen trench coat and bowler hat he looked as inconspicuous as everyone else who came to this establishment. But when he made eye contact, behind those thick- rimmed glasses that he wore, there was a flicker of ... disgust? No too strong a word. Pity? Surely not. Guilt was the usual look behind the eyes of clients to Snide's shadowy world. But there was something about this man that instantly spoke of someone different. And different meant bad. Even in this time.
"I wonder if you could help," began the man. Clipped Radio 4 pronunciation. Softly spoken. Authoritative, even if underplayed.
"It's not often that folk visiting here ask me for the help," Snide replied dryly. And with his portly build he'd be surprised if they did. Did this old man know where he was? What purported to lie beyond these front doors?
The old man was carrying something in his black leather gloved hands. There was a white silk scarf discreetly around his neck, and a restrained collar and tie beneath that. Government possibly. Or worse. But if he was a threat, he still looked like a contemporary one.
The man produced a photograph from a book, and Snide was sure that he spotted the words 'Diary' on the cover of the pastel covered book. It looked a bit girlie for a man like this to be holding. Each to his own though.
"Have you seen this girl, by any chance?"
Snide glanced lazily at the image, and kept perfect composure as he recognised the girl it showed. He looked at the man feigning ignorance. But those cold eyes bore into him with an intensity that he couldn't resist. He lowered his eyes to the photo again, preferring to lie without eye contact. "Lots of girls come and go around here, but she's a bit young for this sort of place, I'd say."
"This was taken a year ago," added the man. "She looked a lot like her mother did at that age."
I bet, thought Snide to himself, eyeing the old man as he returned the photo slowly into the book. Snide once more found himself looking at that diary's cover. It was a girl's, he was sure, and he suspected he knew who that diary belonged to. Alarm bells were ringing in his head.
"Is she in some kind of danger?" Snide asked, before the pause in the conversation caused him to perspire with pressure.
"I do so hope not."
"Hope?!" Snide scoffed instinctively.
He could feel that man's eyes once more drilling into his facade.
"You speak of dangerous things, my friend," added Snide.
The old man stiffened, but more from the attempt of association that the man was making rather than his views on basic emotions.
"Not that hope doesn't have its place," Snide continued, sure that this line of moral wallpaper would push the old man away. And indeed it did.
The old man doffed his hat in a strangely old fashioned manner. "Thank you anyway, sir," he said, turning to leave.
Snide smirked as he watched him go. Thank you? What was the old pimp doing thanking him for. He hadn't told him anything.
Had he?
***
Losing family and home hadn't bothered her much. But companions ... now that was a different matter. You come to trust companions. You can pick and choose your companions, but your relations are thrust upon you.
Well she didn't need to worry about relations anymore. But her companion was her soul-mate. And with the year so young she'd just finished updating her place in life now in the new year's diary. Now that was missing too. Two companions, last years and this, both gone ... gone missing. But with the upheaval, the new job and everything maybe that wasn't as suspicious as she was fearing. Too much growing up had made her naturally suspicious though.
And this was her first night in the new job too.
She walked towards the new address with almost a spring in her step. Despite the worries over her diary she had never felt this free for some time. Even the buzz of the neon streetlights made her feel clearheaded. Life was finally beginning to look bearable at last. And she owed it all to him.
As she turned round the side of a tenement building which she knew neighboured her new address she saw a woman some distance ahead of her about to enter the same establishment she was headed to. And entering the same side door she'd been told about in confidence. There was something about that woman's profile, the way she walked. It reminded her of ... No, the dead stayed dead. She was sure of that.
Besides, she'd been shown her mother's body. She chided herself for even thinking the woman ahead looked like-
"Miss Redmond?"
She froze and whipped her head round.
The voice was soft. Too soft and cultured to be trustworthy.
"Don't look so waxy round the gills, my dear, I'm merely saying good evening."
It was then that she realised he had doffed his hat and was walking away into the night, black woollen trench coat, bowler hat and all.
But no man who spoke was true, no man could be trusted. This was no story of faeries, gold and dreams; tales that had been robbed from her youth unlike those of her peers. This was real life, and nothing was said without claims or moves motivated by power or threat.
"Who ... who are you?" she called after him, finding herself backing away towards the safety of the side door of her place of business.
He stopped and looked back at her, eyes looking owlishly out at her from his thick-rimmed glasses, eyes only partly seen beneath his bowler hat and weak street light. "You won't remember me, my dear. I used to be a friend of your grandmother. You may remember me. In a few hours time. And then all you'd need look for is the eyes of the wolf. Then you'll be safe."
And with that enigma, or nonsense, or whatever it was, he was gone.
The night suddenly felt cold, and the pavement beneath her seemingly on the road to nowhere. Tomorrow seemed a long way away again.
The eyes of the wolf? What did that mean?
Pulling up her hood, she turned to claim the life that would be hers.
Up until this point her life had been a maze of moments leading to blind alleys of despair. This time she was sure she was going forward. And she wasn't going to lose her way.
***
The old man slowed to a halt under one streetlight near the shore. The moon had come out and was casting a path over the swirling waters beyond the railing.
He pulled a book out of his deep pockets and leafed through the hand written pages. Black ink had been used throughout. His black-gloved hand ran down the last page to find the final entry. "I have never killed before. But there's a first time for everything I suppose." His index finger tapped that last line.
"The thread of time has drawn a black line," he muttered. "Enough for me to follow."
And he had to follow the line well. For he knew this was more than a battle against the dark side of human nature; it was a race against the crumbling gates of time.
Episode 2
by Steve Lake
"If death is what he wants, then death is what he shall get..."
She was shown into an office by the tall, thin black man who had opened the side door when she'd knocked. He had admitted her without comment, without even barely looking at her, just opened the door and stood aside to admit her entrance. Just like that. Easy.
He was armed. There was a tell-tale bulge beneath his dark jacket at the small of his back. He moved with a predators' grace. No mere doorman/guardian, like the majority of the over-muscled thugs who swaggered outside similar dens. He was more like a bodyguard, and a good one at that, she bet. If he was an example of the sort of protection being offered, she immediately approved.
He didn't knock at the office door. Just opened it up and let her in. If his employer was annoyed by this lack of courtesy, it didn't show. She simply carried on with the conversation she was having over the telephone pressed to her right ear. Her eyes flicked with false disinterest over her to the black man and she made a small shrug with her shoulders as if to say why me?'
The woman appeared to be in her late forties, but such was the nature of her occupation that she was probably at least a decade younger. Maybe more.
She was a good few pounds overweight, judging from the way the chair protested when she shifted her weight, probably due to bad food and no exercise. She had that desk-bound look about her. Her long curly hair was red, but it was a stark, artificial tone, the sort of colour that only came out of a bottle. Her face was heavily made up, thick with rouge and lipstick, but it only barely disguised the lines and wrinkles, making her look more grotesque. Her clothing didn't help either. It would have been more suitable for a woman half her age and a quarter her build - if suitable was the right word describe what she was wearing. Illegal, was possibly a closer description, if only in a public place in broad daylight at any rate.
But, she supposed, she no longer had to worry about looking alluring anymore. She'd gone beyond that line of work.
As it was, she looked and sounded old. Jaded. What was the expression? Ah yeah... world-weary. Considering the world she frequented, that was not surprising.
It would have tired anyone.
Faintly, she heard the murmur of the voice on the other end of the line, and the woman sighed.
"Honey, you know the drill... the customer gets what the customer wants to pay for - so long as he can pay for it. He can? Then he can." She nodded her towards a chair facing her desk, and she sat. The black man remained standing by the door, impassively. Waiting.
Idly, she took in the room while she waited. She'd seen offices like this before. Cheap luxury and plushness. Lots of gaudy red leather, the low lighting hiding the wear and tear. There was a tall, broad bookcase behind the desk, but it looked artificial. Probably a hidden door. A way out or a way in, of some kind. Maybe a nook for an eavesdropper. She wondered if there was anyone behind it now.
The air smelt of stale tobacco, cheap liqour and bargain store perfume, but beneath that miasma was something... rottener. An odour probably only she could detect, because it was an odour probably only she knew.
The odour of her mother's house.
There were two windows in the room; one overlooked the street, but it was veiled by a metallic strip blind that clinked and clanked dully under the breeze produced by the wheezing fan that was vainly attempting to shift the air in the room. The other window was to the right of the desk, and she guessed it was one of those one-way mirror affairs. It too had blinds but they were not drawn; she wished they were, as there were things going on in the room beyond the glass she would have prefered not to have before her gaze. She had to settle for pretending not to notice.
But the woman noticed this and smirked, slightly, as she continued her conversation.
"Okay, maybe a coffin isn't the most practical place to... I know, but if that is what he wants," she repeated slowly, as if talking to a child, "then that is what he shall get, okay Gloria? Now I gotta go."
She put the phone down, stared across at her for a second or two, and then grinned broadly, with teeth too white and too even to be anything other than false.
"Hiya, honey. I'm Mo. You must be..."
"Red. Call me Red."
"Why, sure, honey!" the woman giggled. "Whatever you want!"
"It's not what I want that's important," she warned softly. "It's what HE wants."
Mo's grin faded in an instant, replaced by a hard expression that told her how she'd ever lasted long enough to reach this position in life - such as it was. Beneath that grotesque, gaudy exterior, lurked steel. Cold steel.
But that was how her employer liked his employees. Mo was no exception.
"Fair enough," murmured Mo. She tapped a finger against her lips, narrowed her eyes. Squinting like that gave her a vaguely reptillian aspect.
"You do look kinda familiar," she murmured.
"No I don't."
Mo blinked in surprise at that. Very possibly she wasn't used to being spoken to in this way. Well, tough.
"Now, honey," she drawled with deceptive placidness, "you ought'nt be talkin' to me like that..."
"Oh?" She slipped a hand into her cloak and pulled something out, tossing it on to the desk. "I think you'll find that THIS gives me the right to say whatever I like... to whomever I like."
Mo stared at the item on her desk for a long moment. Then she glanced over her shoulder towards the black man and nodded slightly. "Okay, Mike..."
The black man nodded, still impassive, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind them, leaving them alone. Mo studied her carefully for a moment longer.
"You been working for him long?"
"Long enough." Mind your own business, her eyes said.
"Ah huh." I ain't scared, said Mo's eyes.
"You know the score." Oh yes you are, she flashed back.
"Yeah. I know the score..." Mo's eyes flickered from hers to stare at the scene beyond the one-way mirror. She was scared, all right. She nodded slightly to what was going on, then looked back at her with a knowing smirk. "Do you know what's goin' on?"
She forced herself to look back at what was happening. Looked back at Mo. Sighed.
"If I didn't, would I be here?"
Mo shrugged. "Just you look a little... young."
"I thought that was the trend in this line of work."
Mo snorted. "There is no trend in this line of work, honey. It's just a case of what people want. And what they want," and she prodded the desk before significantly, "I provide."
"For a price."
Mo nodded. "Naturally. Everything has it's price, honey. Just a case of whether or not folk are prepared to meet it." She smirked again, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand to stare at her. "And what's your price, sugar?"
She smiled coldly.
"That's between myself and my - our - employer."
"I need to know so I can-"
"No."
Mo's mouth shut with a snap at the tone of that reply.
"No. You do not need to know. My price has been arranged just between myself and our employer. It will also just be arranged between my employer and... such ever interested parties who are prepared to meet his terms. You are not required to know the details. You-" and she stabbed a finger towards Mo, "are simply my hostess. My... willing hostess."
"Willing, huh?" murmured Mo. Again, her eyes said different.
"Oh yes."
She reached inside her cloak again and pulled something else out and tossed it onto the table. Mo caught it before it rolled off the edge and held it up. A tight roll of banknotes. She took one look at the figure printed on the top one and whistled. The figure was printed all the others too.
"And there will be plenty more where that came from... if you are willing."
Mo glanced from the money to her. Grinned again.
"Honey, for this kinda bread... I'll be as willin' an' able as never before."
"Good." She stood up, scooping up the token she'd earlier tossed onto the desk and putting it back in her pocket. She'd need that again. "Now I believe you have a room for me?"
Mo chuckled and stood too. She looked even worse stood up.
"Of course I have, darlin'! What kinda hostess do you think I am?"
She bit back her reply. She didn't want to antagonise her further. She had too much to do... too much to prepare.
To prepare - for him.
***
The old man prowled.
Anyone watching him would have considered that there was an aimlessness to this prowling, but there wasn't. He knew exactly where he was going.
If not exactly what he was doing. But then, he'd vowed a long time ago to stop doing that. It wasn't nearly so much fun...
Even if twice as dangerous.
The streets were dark and largely empty, frequented only by the kind of people who preferred dark and emptiness. But he bade them little heed, and they bade him little heed. That was the nature of the night.
He plodded along a street, hands behind his back, staring down at the pavement as if searching for something. He walked with an awkward, stiff-legged, shuffling, gait, as if he was normally used to walking with a stick.
An observer might have noticed that this was partly because he seemed to be avoiding the cracks between the paving slabs.
There was a murmur of sound, up ahead. He didn't look up, but his ears pricked.
There, lying against a wall, huddled in old blanket. A vagrant. A street person. He was strumming an old guitar and singing softly, halfway through a song.
"... Every step, of the way, will find us... with the cares, of the world, far behind us..."
The old man came closer, stopped before the vagrant. He was quite a young looking man, with tousled, dark bleached-blonde hair sticking out from beneath a grimy dark woollen cap, and a face full of dark stubble, giving him a handsomely ruffian appearence. He didn't look up from his strumming, just carried on singing, softly.
"We have all... the time... in the world... just for love... nothing more... nothing less... only love..."
The old man snorted, and frowned disapprovingly.
"Indeed," he muttered, and tossed something into the battered guitar case at the vagrant's feet. The vagrant stopped strumming and singing, and looked up at the old man.
He winked.
The old man's frown deepened, then he turned and plodded on his way again.
The vagrant watched him go for a moment, then leaned across and picked up what the old man had thrown in. He studied it for a moment, noting his new instructions, then chuckled and shook his head, tucking the object into his coat, before glancing at the old man's back and giving him a wry salute.
"Thank you, sir..." he murmured.
Then he picked up his guitar and began to sing again, a different song now, his strumming picking up tempo as he did.
"Just dial my number... I got some plans for you... you're in a bad way, and I can help you through..."
The singing drifted faintly teasingly after the old man, following him until he went round a corner and vanished into the night again.
***
Snide was counting his takings when a shadow fell across him. He looked up... and froze, change tinkling through his fingers back into the cash box.
A man filled his vision. A big man, his face shrouded by shadow.
"Good evening," he murmured, in a voice that was low and dark and sinister.
"Er... good... evening," stammered Snide.
"I am looking for... a girl."
Snide tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. Something about the way the guy was looking at him didn't exactly promote the desire to smile. He had to settle for waving a hand around him.
"Well, uh... you come to the right place..."
The man shook his head.
"No."
"Uh... no?"
"No. I am looking for... a particular girl."
He slid something from his dark coat and placed it on the counter before Snide. A photograph. A face.
Snide recognised the face instantly. He swallowed. It was the same face the old guy had been asking after.
The man tapped it with a powerful forefinger. It was an unusually large finger, with a long, narrow, tapering fingernail, more like a talon or a claw than a nail, in fact. And top of the finger was covered in swirls of thick, matted black hair.
"This girl."
"That, uh, girl?"
"Yes..." The man leaned forward a little more so the lower half of his face was revealed by the light, and smiled. It was a big smile, full of big white teeth. Big, white... sharp teeth.
"I am so very anxious to meet her," he purred. "And she, me."
"Well, uh... yeah..."
The man leaned further forward, exposing the rest of his face, so Snide could see his eyes clearly.
The cash box began to jitter wildly between his trembling hands, the changing jingling and clattering.
"Tell me," hissed the man.
Snide told him.
Episode 3
by Mark Simpson
"All men are equal in the depths of the night."
Mo had waddled to the door of her office and called for Mike, who appeared as if by magic in the doorway. The hostess then instructed him to escort Red to her room.
The broad shouldered bodyguard had nodded once, then inclined his head to Red. She took his hint and followed him deeper into her new place of business.
They made their way in silence along a dark corridor. Dusty scarlet velvet curtains hung over the few windows, which were thick with grime. The carpet, also a scarlet colour, was tatty and threadbare. The only decorations were famous prints that dotted the walls, occasionally hiding a peeling patch of wallpaper. Some of the prints were lopsided, as if nobody around the place could be bothered to straighten them.
None of this would have been evident to a casual observer, but Red was far from casual, in anything she did. Her excellent night vision easily picked up the signs of decay as they headed up a narrow staircase. But it didn't surprise her. She had worked in filthier, more run down places than this before. But when she had completed this assignment for her benefactor, she would be moving up in the world. No more backstreet dives for Red then. Only the best would do after this little job.
Up another flight of stairs they went, still not a word exchanged. She had noticed from the outside that this was a big house, but hadn't bothered to count the floors. She began to wonder where exactly Mo had decided to put her 'new girl'.
On the next landing Mike led her across another threadbare carpet to a narrow door. A plaque on the door announced that this was 'The Primrose Parlour'. Red curled her lip.
Mike swung the door open and gestured inside. Red stepped across the threshold, taking in the musty atmosphere and drab interior by the inadequate light of a small table lamp. She turned back to her tall companion.
"Is this the best she can do?"
The man shrugged, quite a feat given his big frame. He turned and started to pull the door closed behind him.
"Tell Mo I'll be making a complaint about the state of this room to our employer."
Mike paused, looking back at her through the narrow gap between door and frame. He smiled, showing two perfect rows of white teeth. Then he finished closing the door and left Red to her own devices.
She surveyed the room once more. With a sigh she decided it would serve her purpose. She slipped off her cloak and reached into her large shoulder bag. Time to prepare for her first 'visitor'.
***
Outside the relative safety of the big house, men were moving in the depths of the night. Men with purpose and other men without.
One such figure that seemed to be moving without purpose was the shambling vagrant busker, who was shuffling along a street, which was sparsely lit, as half the lamps along it were smashed. Wrapped in his dirty blanket, with his guitar hanging down his back, he seemed a pathetic figure.
So it was that when the large man stepped from an alleyway, he almost knocked the poor wretch over in his haste. However, the bulky form, seemingly clothed in shadow, didn't regret the near accident.
"Watch where you're going!" he growled, his eyes flashing amber before stepping around the vagrant and continuing on his way.
"I was," the vagrant murmured, watching with a knowing smile as the powerful figure strode away into the darkness.
***
The old man had paused in his seemingly aimless wanderings. Not that they were aimless of course, but it would have taken a keen mind to deduce the pattern behind them.
Standing under a street lamp, he removed his spectacles and polished them on the white silk scarf around his neck, before replacing them carefully on his nose. Then he reached into an inside pocket of his long black coat to retrieve a slim leather bound book.
He flicked through the pages of the diary. He had only recently reread the last entry, so he skipped back to the last but one and started to read.
"All men are equal in the depths of the night. They are all bastards! All except my benefactor, who has stepped back into my life once more. He looked like he had never been away, despite the fact that it has been some time since we last met. And he has given me a purpose in life, a task to perform. When it is complete I shall be free to make my own way in the world. He will see to that. I shall be so well paid for my services this time that I can buy anything, or anyone, I want. All I have to do is kill.
But that isn't a problem to me. They are only men after all. The more the better as far as I am concerned. All I have to do is go to the address he gave me and wait for the 'victims' to arrive. Before I know it, I shall be living the high life. And the world will have a few less men in it."
Clipped to the bottom of the page was a white piece of card, with a neatly printed address on it. The address of the big house.
The old man sighed. Silly girl, he thought. How could she be taken in so easily? Her grandmother hadn't been that gullible. But then her Grandmother hadn't had the life that young Miss Redmond had.
Slipping the diary back into his pocket, he shuffled away from the lamplight and back into the shadows of the night.
But from the darkness of an alleyway, amber eyes watched the old man's back as he rounded the corner out of sight.
***
The vagrant was standing across the street from the big house. His eyes roamed upwards to a third floor window, where a light was burning but the curtains were firmly closed.
He noticed a side door of the house opening and a man walked up the short flight of steps and out onto the path. The man pulled his collar up and his hat down over his eyes. The watching vagrant saw that the man was of a similar height and build to himself.
His course of action decided, he crossed the street quickly and followed the man round the corner.
They walked for about five minutes, crossing streets and rounding more corners. They seemed to be heading into a derelict area of the city. The man from the house hadn't noticed he was being followed.
The vagrant increased his pace until he had drawn within a few feet of the man. Even though he was hardly making a sound, his quarry couldn't help but notice now that there was someone closing in.
The man turned but as he did so a fist caught him on the point of his jaw. He went down hard and fast, unconscious before he hit the pavement.
The vagrant glanced around, ensuring nobody was watching. He reached under the arms of his victim and dragged him towards a boarded up house.
Releasing his burden, the vagrant reached for the board covering the door. It swung open easily, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Stooping down once more, he pulled the man inside and pushed the door closed again with his foot.
***
The old man paused, as if trying to get his bearings, despite the fact he knew exactly where he was and where he was going. He had an itch at the back of his neck, which could only mean one of two things. Either there was trouble coming or someone was watching him. Maybe even both.
He glanced around himself, as if attempting to discern his location. He was really checking for hidden watchers, but there was nobody obvious. But that didn't mean a thing. It could easily be someone experienced enough to avoid detection, even by someone like him.
Sighing, he set off once more. If there was someone watching or following him, he would know soon enough. At the moment he had other problems concerning his mind.
***
The vagrant left the derelict house very different from how he had arrived. He seemed taller, because he wasn't half stooping any more. The guitar and filthy blanket had gone. He was now dressed in the suit of the man he had been following. He finger combed his short, dirty blond hair into place as he pulled the board/door closed. He bent and retrieved a key from under a nearby stone and locked up behind him.
His victim was still alive, though he wouldn't be waking up any time soon. When he did, he would find he was bound and gagged. And in his underwear.
As the former vagrant retraced his steps through the murky streets, hands thrust deep into his pockets, he whistled the tune he had been strumming when he had encountered the old man earlier. Just before he got his new instructions.
***
The old man studied an electronic device that he had retrieved from another pocket of his coat. According to the small screen, which reflected sickly green light onto his face, things were getting worse. The itch on the back of his neck earlier had been correct. Events were spiralling out of his control.
"There's less time than I thought," he muttered to himself, sliding the device back into the pocket. Frowning, he rounded the corner onto the street where the house was located.
Before he could cross the road, he observed a short, portly man walking quickly towards the dimly lit side entrance of the house.
The old man hung back, watching from the shadows as the man trotted down the short flight of stone steps from street level and rang the bell. The door was opened by someone unseen and the visitor slipped swiftly inside.
Stepping from the shadows, the old man's frown deepened. Then he saw a new figure rounding the corner and heading for the house.
It was the busker he had encountered earlier, in his freshly 'borrowed' suit, striding confidently towards the house. Outside, the younger man paused and his eyes strayed once more to the third floor window before he too headed for the side entrance.
The old man smiled. It was good that he would have his operative in place before the final act.
***
Mo greeted the man who had bustled into the lounge. She recognised the short, bulky form instantly as one of her regular visitors.
"Good evening," she said, taking his coat and hat. "George, isn't it?"
She knew of course that George wasn't the man's real name. Anybody who kept up to date with the news could have told that much. But for the duration of his dealings under this roof he was George.
"That's right," he replied softly, his grey moustache twitching.
"And what is your pleasure tonight, George?" Mo inquired. She smiled slightly to herself. Of course she remembered all of George's usual, or rather unusual, requirements, but this was all part of the game.
He lowered his voice further, looking around as if expecting to be overheard. "I hear that you've had a new arrival."
Now Mo smiled openly. "We have indeed. A nice young lady, just ready to assist you in unwinding from the day's troubles."
George returned her smile weakly. "Sounds perfect. Where can I find her?"
"Third floor. The Primrose Parlour."
"And the usual rate?"
Mo's smile faltered slightly, remembering her conversation with Red earlier and what they had said about their 'employer'.
"We'll sort out money when you're finished," she said quickly.
George nodded. With a spring in his step he set off up the stairs, knowing exactly where he was going from experience.
Mo watched him, any humour drained from her face. She hoped that she wouldn't regret what happened this night.
***
The old man watched until the former vagrant had rung the ball and been admitted, then slipped out of the shadows and crossed the road. He skirted the house and found an alley that led round the back.
Before he stepped into the alley, he looked round. His neck was itching again and he could have sworn there was someone watching him, but no matter how hard he stared into the shadows, he couldn't see anyone.
So it was that he missed the cool amber eyes fixed on him as he stepped into the alleyway that led to the back of the house.
***
Mo looked the new visitor up and down. He wasn't a regular customer, indeed she couldn't remember ever seeing him before tonight. As her eyes returned to his face, she wondered what he was doing here at all. He surely didn't need their services with his looks.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely.
"I hope so," he said with a cocky grin. "Or at least point me in the direction of someone that can."
Mo smiled tightly. "Anything particular you require?"
The young man nodded. "I believe you have a new girl starting work tonight. She sounds exactly what I'm looking for."
"Are you sure? We have plenty of other girls. And our 'new arrival' is busy right now, with a customer."
"That's alright, I'll wait."
"As you wish," Mo replied, gesturing to one of the plushly upholstered armchairs. The young man dropped into it with an easy grace and crossed his legs.
***
In the alleyway behind the house, the old man had found a back gate. It squeaked noisily as he swung it open. He winced, trying to close it carefully.
A cat meowed at him from its place on top of a dustbin. He scowled at it and the cat jumped down and trotted away, hissing.
Looking around himself, the old man found himself in a dingy yard, with rubbish piled around the dustbins and crates of empty alcohol bottles stacked unsteadily in a corner. There was a simple looking door set into the wall before him that obviously led into the house.
He had just crossed the yard and laid his hand on the door handle when a scream split the night. A scream wrenched from a male throat.
Episode 4
by Kenny Davidson
It was as the locked door was brought crashing down off its hinges that the Minister screamed. He'd heard the thump of a fist on the wood beforehand and wrenched his eyes away from the young lady's petite bosom to glare with terror at the barrier to the outside world. Then an adventurous looking young man in black suit and ruffian blonde features physically forced his way into the room. Instinctively, the Minister whipped his head round to look in disgust - as much personal as directed - at the woman who shared his compromising situation. And therein lay the reason for his second scream in as many seconds.
The naked young redhead was also staring with vile anger at the newcomer, but it wasn't her eyes that made him balk in terror. It as her teeth, or rather the two sharply pointed fangs that were showing among the upper row of her teeth. And as he screamed at her he also noticed that there 'was' something odd about her eyes. A wild, animal-like glow that - like the teeth - had not been there seconds before.
Then he found himself being hauled off of her, one firm hand digging into his fatty shoulders, another hooked round his thigh. Before he realised what was happening he had been lifted into the air and flung bodily to the side of the room.
"Perhaps Minister, you would like to spend a little more time with your family now," quipped the intruder.
He was vaguely aware of how debilitating it was to be thrown anywhere when one's trousers were still shackled around one's ankles. Then his head collided with the wall, or something, and the resulting pain washed everything to blackness.
***
Momentarily distracted by the scream, the old man let his guard down, and the amber eyes pounced. But as the man turned expecting too late the attack of fur and claws, instead he found himself looking down at a large dog circling his feet. The dog - or wolf, rather - was licking his old-fashioned black brogues. The man chuckled softly with both surprise and not a little relief. "My shoes need polishing do they? Can't quite see your reflection, can you?"
The wolf looked up at him, two sets of intelligent eyes connecting.
"I'm sorry," the man added, as if he'd caused offence.
The wolf looked up at the lit bedroom window and tensed expectedly.
The man looked up also, clearing his throat softly. "Yes indeed; the hour of the wolf is indeed at hand."
***
The blood was thumping in Red's head, and she had been robbed her night's work. Two reasons to seek vengeance. She wanted to shout at the intruder, but speech was no longer possible. The transition could not be stopped and she had to quickly pounce onto her four legs, to set her body in the best position for a killer attack.
She was seeing red now too. Red eyes attempting to burn into the intruder. The man was quick. He had already armed himself with an upturned chair as a barrier.
She turned her head to look at where that night's prey had been thrown. He still looked alive, if unconscious. That meant he could still be dispatched. But the intruder stole his moment with almost inhuman swiftness. She turned too late to avoid the impact of the chair across her side.
With a yelp, Red leapt off the bed. The man was dangerous, and extremely sharp. And she was in pain. Turning to the window, and the moonlit view outwith, she took the one action the man would not expect. She leapt for it, the impact of the dive shattering the thin glass and issuing a gust of cold air into the hot room.
***
Mike, the big black bodyguard, had been the first to arrive at Red's room, where he found a tall athletic man staring at the shattered window. Another man, old and more in keeping with the types of client this place attracted, lay slumped against the wall. Of Red there was no sign.
As the man turned to face him, Mike squared his shoulders to block the doorway completely.
***
Red sailed from the window and into the darkness with sickening speed, landing softly among strong smelling bags and boxes. A rubbish collection. Bleeding and hurt, she quickly looked round to find a pair of amber eyes meeting hers. Amber eyes, and those of a man behind the other wolf. She stiffened. That man. She recognised that man.
What was it he had said? "You won't remember me, my dear. I used to be a friend of your grandmother. You may remember me. In a few hours time."
Amber started growling, obviously protecting the man. He was clearly important. A leader perhaps - but a man as a pack leader? Or was he the same as her, a child of the night?
The man leaned down to whisper to Amber, and then vanished into the house via the back door. Amber stood there, body tensed.
The pain was beginning to intrude on her senses. Too many cuts to face another confrontation. And cuts meant ... needles. Suddenly she found herself issuing a lonely howl, nose in the air as if aiming at the moon.
Then she was off, heading for the shore, to wash her wounds and recover.
Amber eyes remained as sentry to the house.
***
"Ah, I suppose you're the guard dog, are you?" the man asked, levelly. "Do you have a name?"
Mike folded his big arms, impassively.
"I've got a name," continued the man. "But you can call me Captain." He paused. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
In response, Mike smiled his toothy grin, before opening his mouth and letting his long thin tongue fold out. It was a dog's tongue in a man's body.
The man seemed surprised. "So you're one of those..."
Mike suddenly lunged for him, but the man sidestepped, and jumped over the bed. Mike rammed the side of the bed, pushing it at the intruder's legs, blocking his immediate exit. The man disappeared below the bed, and suddenly the bed was being flung upwards in Mike's direction; doubtless on the heels of the intruder's boots. With a grin, Mike dived onto the bed, intent on damaging the intruder's legs, but the bed hammered floorboard just ahead of him. Clumsily he climbed up again, but already the man had swung underneath the bed to escape from the other side, and now he was nearer the door.
"Maybe you're not one of those," the intruder commented, "otherwise you'd have changed by now."
Mike growled, the sound gurgling from the back of his throat.
"Wait a moment," the man announced, dramatically, putting his hand into the front pocket of the suit jacket. "I've brought you a little present." Mike saw a glint of cylindrical steel and stiffened. "It didn't come with the suit; I brought this here myself on purpose." The man put the cylinder to his mouth, and blew.
Suddenly a sound so painful assailed Mike that he clamped his heavy hands over his ears and doubled up.
***
The old man walked purposefully down the thinly carpeted corridor, the hat and gloves still firmly attached as if he did not intend staying long. A door further down the hall opened and a scantily clad blonde girl popped a worried head into the corridor. She looked spooked by the sight of the old man, before hiding her reaction behind a 'professional' smile.
The man doffed his hat automatically but did not stop. "Don't worry my dear, everything is quite alright. Just some rather..." he coughed slightly, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying this, "demanding clients on the upper floor." His eyes closed for a couple of seconds of self reproach, but it was important that the scene he was approaching did not become too overpopulated too soon. The hour had not yet arrived.
***
The young Captain made to walk out of the room. The room that he had intruded upon and caused a wolf to escape from, and a man to collapse in deafened agony. But something made him hesitate just before the threshold. He backed up quickly and spotted a black drape on the wall. Pulling it silently down, he found it revealed a mirror behind it. Clearly the 'woman' had had a modicum of modesty about her work if this mirror was what he suspected it was. He turned and flung the black drape out of the door in front of him.
As if on cue, a middle-aged woman in red leather crashed a metal fire extinguisher onto the drape, realising too late that there was no body within the fabric. The Captain dived forward and lay a small punch on the woman's jaw sending her spinning onto the floor, the extinguisher clanking to the floor by her feet, and her wig of artificial red hair slipping a foot of so from her bald head.
His hearing heightened with adrenaline, he turned to the end of the corridor to see whom the very quiet footsteps belonged to.
"The boss is going to be very interested to meet you, young un," croaked the woman.
"And I will be very interested to meet your boss," replied the old man, who walked almost silently to stand over the woman.
"Will the employer be in the building?" asked the Captain of the man, while still crouched on the floor by the extinguisher.
"No," replied the man conspiringly. "He'll be out looking for his children. But I'll wait. Thank you Captain Vaidya, you may now take the Minister back to a place of safety."
Vaidya stood. "Yes, Sir."
The old man visibly winced.
Vaidya suppressed a smile at the man's reaction to reverence. "Doctor," Vaidya corrected himself.
"And Captain, while the wolf at the back door is on our side, and has been warned to give you leave, you should be aware that the Minister is not yet out of danger while he is in this vicinity. The wolves are running tonight."
Vaidya nodded his understanding before going back into the room, carrying the extinguisher with him. There was an animal-like gurgling sound, as if a mute man were about to attack. The sound of something heavy impacting on something hard followed, then the impact of a heavy body falling to the floor.
"No you don't big man," Vaidya was heard to say. "That should keep you sleeping for a few hours."
The Doctor grimaced. The woman groaning from the floor distracted him from his associate's violence in the room beyond. He glowered down at the wretched figure at his feet. "That poor little old lady routine is not going to work on me, 'Madam'. Get up. Your employer is paying you good money to keep this sham of a place looking like the convincing faade that it is. I suggest you start covering up for this unfortunate incident."
Vaidya came out of the room, carrying the unconscious Minister over his shoulder. The politician was once more attired in his suit, albeit not with the care and attention he would probably have afforded himself.
"Does his career matter in where I leave him tonight, Sir?" the Captain asked.
"No politician's career ever has a bearing on the great scheme of things," observed the Doctor dryly. "This one is no exception. We just need to make sure that next week's incumbent of his position is of their own ... stock."
Vaidya nodded and left.
Mo had gathered up her red wig, and unashamedly reapplied it to her head. "So you're a Doctor?" she said. "You and Snide together, eh? So tell me Doctor, is he your boy?"
The Doctor paused as if considering his response. "I am responsible for him if that's what you mean, but I do not expect an expenses claim from yourself for his actions tonight. Now if you don't mind, I am not in the habit of dealing with subordinates, so I'll let you get on with your job while I await the arrival of your ... employer."
***
Red licked the cold night water at the shore. The moon cast a path over the billowing water, and here she felt peace. Peace from assault, responsibility, and most of all, from time. Suddenly a large shape overshadowed her. She turned her head slowly to face the more familiar amber eyes in her life. The figure was man-sized and stood on two legs, but she knew those amber eyes as her own dear handsome benefactor. She lay down and let him bend over her to lick at her wounds.
"You must heal soon, young lady," whispered her benefactor. "The victim will be easy prey this night. And our survival strategy has earned some impressive attention. We are needed back at the house, you and I. For this is the one night when everything that fate stores, is ours for the shaping."
Episode 5
by Steve Lake
It didn't take Vaidya long to deal with the Minister and return to the house. He left the man sitting in the middle of the concourse of the city's main rail terminal. Even at this hour, the place hummed with life, and even the enemy they faced tonight would have to consider very carefully before making a move against him. It was too open, too public; and Vaidya had ensured the man was insensible enough not to go wandering, at least until they were ready to allow him to go wandering. And by way of making doubly sure, he had made a phone call, and called in an old debt. Now the Minister was never less than six feet from protection, or at least escape. Of course there had been grumblings - 'what the hell kind of time do you call this?' etc - but it was a large debt, and while this person had their faults (how else could they have owed him?) they never forgot a favour.
There was such a thing as honour, even in Vaidya's chosen profession.
As he approached the house, he was more than slightly surprised to see the Doctor lurking on the pavement outside. He looked curiously agitated, almost uncomfortable, which was most unlike him.
"I feel the need for some air," he explained, giving a tiny but significant nod of his head towards the house. Vaidya offered a small smile of understanding.
"Not exactly a healthy environment, is it?"
The old man gave a small shrug of his shoulders, and started to shuffle down the street. "Let's prowl," he murmured. "I'm growing a little weary of this gentleman's tardiness. Perhaps we can prod some life into proceedings."
Vaidya raised his eyebrows. "What about the house?"
The Doctor flicked a glance towards the alley. Vaidya caught a hint of glowing amber eyes.
"Amber will maintain vigilence. I am sure, if anything happens, he will let us know." He motioned Vaidya forward. "You have transport? My feet..." and he stamped his feet a little, staring down at his shoes with faint irritation, "these shoes, are new, and not quite broken in."
Vaidya grinned. "Want me to go fetch your slippers?"
The Doctor narrowed his eyes. "Do, and I shall take one to you, young man! You're not too old, you know..."
"Corporal punishment is illegal in this state," declared Vaidya with a twinkle in his eye.
"Only if they catch me," grumbled the Doctor, waving him onwards. "And I have no intention of being caught this night - by anyone - or anything..."
***
Red prowled too.
Her wounds were healing, now, after the attentions of her benefactor. Now she loped through the night, keeping to the shadows, but tensed, ready...
She was heading in the general direction of the house, but she didn't want to go back straight away. There was something she needed to do. She still felt anger and frustration at the manner in which her prey had been stolen from her, and knew she couldn't afford to allow that to spill out. Not bearing in mind who she was ranged against.
No, she needed an outlet. Something to relieve that frustration.
It didn't take long to find.
She saw them before they saw her. She watched them for a moment, gaging them, ensuring they wouldn't be too dangerous to take on.
Then she made her move.
She stepped out of the shadows and padded towards them across the empty lot. She was clad only in a grimy blanket she'd found on the shore, naked underneath. She made sure this was quite visible. Any distraction helped.
One of the targets finally noticed her and tapped a comrade on the arm. There was a whistle - a wolf whistle, ironically enough - and then a voice rippled out mockingly:
"Hey baby... wassup?"
There was giggling, and the rest of them emerged from the doorway where they had been squatting, smoking and drinking and chatting. A faint whiff of marijuana and Thunderbird wine accompanied them as they swaggered from the shadows. There were only four of them, Latino of some sort, no older than late teens, their stupid, dull faces still speckled with acne. They were dressed similarly; denims and heavy workboots that hade never seen a minutes' honest toil; gang apparel. On the backs of their denim vests were their emblems; Red appreciated the irony of them too, for the name of this crew was 'The Wolverines'. She was would have been surprised if any of them could have told her what one was. But she wasn't here for conversation.
She stopped, as they came out and started to circle her, making mewling and chuckling noises, sizing her up, taunting, playing, teasing. Pack mentality. She could understand that. Expected it. But they obviously didn't regard her as much of a menace.
More fool them.
"Lookin' for some action... baby?" one of them drawled, and the others tittered.
Red smiled. Something about that smile seemed to irritate them.
"Watchoo grinnin' at, bitch?" one of them snapped, nervously. Maybe they were starting to realise that any girl wandering more or less naked through the city at this time of night couldn't be entirely what she seemed.
Sorry, boys. Too late now.
Red's smile turned into a grin, giving them the full benefit of her sharp shiny teeth. A collective gasp went up, and they all took a step backwards.
"Oh, @#%$-" one of them began.
She fell on them.
***
"Ta da!"
Vaidya stopped before his current mode of transport. The Doctor eyes it dubiously.
"A police car," he murmured, faintly disapproving.
"Borrowed for the night," Vaidya winked, patting the hood of the big black and white painted cruiser. "Don't worry, it's kosher."
The Doctor sighed. "So much for covert."
Vaidya frowned. "Well, it seemed to me to the best way to get around this place unmolested, as it were... and I can also tune into the police band. Find out what's going down."
The Doctor just sighed again and shook his head, plodding over to the passenger side and opening the door before slipping into the seat stiffly and closing it behind him. Vaidya came round and slipped into the drivers seat. The Doctor gazed around the interior with a faintly reproachfully air, but Vaidya knew not to say anything further. He could tell when the old man wasn't happy, and he wasn't happy. So he kept quiet.
So much for improvisation, he thought sourly. I thought that was what he liked?
There was a large aluminium flask at the Doctor's feet. He picked it up and shook it hopefully at Vaidya. "Tea?"
Vaidya glanced at him - and winced. "No, coffee. Sorry, I keep forgetting."
"Oh dear," said the Doctor in that tone of mild disappointment of his that meant he was really disappointed. He carefully put the flask back down and reached into his pocket and produced a white paper bag full of sweets. He popped a bullseye into his mouth and started sucking on it glumly, staring into the night with the sort of expression one reserved for sitting in rain storm in the middle of a Test Match, after having travelled a hundred miles to see it.
Pointedly, he didn't offer Vaidya a sweet.
Vaidya cleared his throat. "Let's, erm, see what's going on then, shall we?"
The Doctor just slurped on his sweet. Vaidya took that for a yes and switched the radio on. It crackled loudly, making the old man wince, and his expression darkened to one that said not only was it raining and he'd travelled a long way, but a gang of drunken henrys had just sat behind him and were singing ribald songs in a very bad key and spilling lager on his coat.
The police dispatcher sounded bored, in that way only police dispatchers could at that time of night. So little did her intonation change as she made her reports that the pair of them almost missed what they were listening for.
"... corner of third and ninth. Report of a group of youths being attacked by a wild animal. Unit 17, please respond and investigate..."
The Doctor and Vaidya glanced at each other.
"That's only a couple of blocks from here," said Vaidya.
The Doctor nodded, and tapped the dashboard. "In that case, I believe the expression is 'let's roll'," he said. Then he smiled, brightly: "You know, I've always wanted to say that."
Vaidya just shook his head, and gunned the engine into life.
***
Officer Janelle Mantez was getting pretty sick and tired of this beat. She supposed, because of the nature of the people who lived in this sector, and because of the nature of her appearence - latin American stock, brown skin - she got it. But her Spanish was, at best, lousy, and she felt little kinship with what she supposed her superiors considered 'her race'. As far as she was concerned, everyone was the same. And she treated everyone the same. With equal contempt.
Especially her partner. Bodin was new, barely months out of the academy, but full of that self-righteous 'I Am Going To Make A Difference' attitude, which had worn off of Janelle about six months after she'd started to the job. Six years, two failed promotions, one six week stay in hospital thanks to a 'typical' Saturday night brawl later, Janelle had come to loathe that kind of optimism and enthusiam. Couldn't the guy see what was going on around him? How the hell did he think he was going to make a difference? @#%$...
And he wasn't a Chicano. He was middle-class whitebread stock, pure 100% WASP. The closest he'd probably ever come to this kind of society was a fortnights' vacation in Mexico City. So why the hell had they stuck him with her? He'd been with her two weeks now, ever since her last partner came down with peritonitis. Too much lousy street food bolted down between calls. Too many after hours JDs on the rocks. Now everytime she got a stomach cramp, she wondered if she were going the same way. Jesus... as if things weren't bad enough.
He was burbling on about hospitals and volunteer services - like he'd have the energy to even THINK of doing that kind of crap after he'd been on the night shift long enough - when the call came through.
"Wild animal?" he repeated dubiously, replacing the handset. Janelle just shrugged.
"Probably a dog-fight gone wrong. Maybe someone's Rottweiler got loose. @#%$... knowing our luck, the @#%$ is probably rabid."
Bodin winced at her use of profanity, but didn't say anything. She'd found out he was a Born-Again, and didn't exactly believe in cussin' and swearin', which was pretty damn stupid, considering. She always felt you had to be pretty screwed up to still believe in God in a place like this. Janelle only truly believed in two things; that a hollow-point 9mm slug could stop just about anything from a range of twelve feet, and that life was a @#%$.
"Gangs round here use dogs, then?" he asked hesitantly as she swung the cruiser into the location and started to look for somewhere to park up. Friggin' streets were always packed, even at this hour... and she'd catch hell if she blocked the road. Always one @#%$ looking through his curtains ready to complain - 'how's an ambulence going to get through?' they'd bleat. It was never like on @#%$ TV, where they just pulled up straight away, got out, bagged the bad guys and went home to the applause of their commanding officer. These days, by the time you got parked up, the bastards had fled the scene and you spent a weary hour prowling round jumping at shadows before going back to get chewed out for your lack-of response time.
Thanks, boss.
@#%$, they use just about anything... knew of a group who used to keep a sack of @#%$ sewer rats, and throw 'em at people."
"Good lord!" exclaimed Bodin, and Janelle scowled. What kind of an idiot used 'good lord' as a swear term? Jesus...
Finally she found a place and pulled up. "Bring the shot," she snapped, jerking her head towards the pump-action clipped between the seats. Bodin complied, handling the weapon like he thought he was in a @#%$ Charles Bronson movie. Save me from frigging heroes, puh-leeze...
They advanced across the empty lot, that led into the back of an abandoned store of some sort.
"Doors open," pointed out Bodin.
"I saw," snapped Janelle. @#%$, that meant they were inside... she fiddled with the radio pinned to her breast, making sure it worked. Janelle was never afraid to call in back up, even when not even strictly necessary. The city didn't pay her enough for even the smallest risks.
They went inside, flicking on their flashlights. It revealed a broad open space lined with empty metal shelving. Smelled like it had been abandoned some time. Businesses didn't last five minutes round here, legit ones anyway, and most of these stores stayed empty for months before some sorry @#%$ chanced their arm for a few weeks, until getting held up by some 13 year old with an Uzi every other night got a little friggin' tiresome. To say nothing of the less than helpful attitude of the local PD, ha ha...
No, no sign of life whatsoever. That suited her fine.
"Left and right," she murmured, indicating the path they should take. "Stay in earshot. Any problem, sing out - or shoot."
"Er, right."
He didn't look so Charles Bronson anymore. They never did when it came to the genuine prospect of gunplay. The only thing that bothered Janelle about it anymore was the paperwork. Every round had to be accounted for... like they didn't have enough to do.
He scuttled to the left, she the right. She cast her flashlight around warily in her left hand, kept her pistol in her right. First sign of anything and... pow. Happened before to her; a perp ripping off a store just like this, came out of nowhere with a .38. That was when she found her faith in hollow point. Got a commendation for that. She would have prefered a cash bonus instead of a lousy bit of paper and a handshake and a @#%$-eating grin from the Chief, but that wasn't the way, was it?
The torch light gleamed wetly off something on the floor, and she froze.
Blood. A lot of blood. Very fresh, very recently spilled.
Terrific.
"Bodin?" she hissed. "Bodin, get your ass over here!"
It lead in a trail deeper into the store. She could see other things as well as she edged along it; shredded clothes, a ruined boot; a tacky gold crucifix on a heavy gold neck chain, the links snapped as if it had been torn from the neck it had been around. A lot more blood.
Whimpering. Softly, from someone just up ahead. She groped for her radio, trying to use it and hold her pistol at the same time. She'd never got the hang of it. Where was her @#%$ useless partner?
"Bodin! BODIN!"
A whisper of movement behind her. She turned, expecting to see her partner...
But instead, there was an old man in a dark coat and dark hat, pale face, thick framed glasses covering dark eyes... too dark.
"Good evening," he said mildly. Cultured English accent.
Janelle jerked her pistol up to point at him, radio forgotton. "Who the hell are you?" she yelled.
He raised a hand, placatingly. His eyes seemed to gleam beneath the glow of her flashlight, and suddenly Janelle found she couldn't tear her eyes from them. The lenses of the glasses seemed to magnify them, somehow, make them seem so much larger than they naturally were.
Suddenly this guy didn't seem very natural at all.
"Allow me to explain," he murmured, with a small, almost apologetic smile. "If I may," he added politely.
"Ahh... yeah... sure..." she heard herself murmur.
He blinked. She blinked too, and then -
***
When she opened her eyes, she found she was sitting back in the cruiser. Bodin was shaking her arm.
"Mantez? Mantez?"
"Huh?"
"You okay?"
"What? Uh, yeah... yeah, I think..." She stared at him, frowned. He looked as bewildered as she felt. "You okay?" she asked, in a rare show of concern.
"Uh, yeah... I think so too."
She licked her lips, looked around. They were parked just outside the lot, the lot to the store they'd just... just...
"Did we just go in there?" she asked.
Bodin glanced towards the store, frowned. "Uh, yeah."
"Did we... uh... what did we find?"
Nothing, a voice seemed to whisper from nowhere.
"Nothing," said Bodin, a fraction later.
Janelle blinked for a moment. "Good. That... that was what I figured."
"Yeah," nodded Bodin, almost to himself. "Yeah, nothing." He looked at her and smiled. "Nothing at all."
"Good." She smiled back, then switched on the engine. "Let dispatch know, then we'll go eat. You hungry?"
"Like a wolf," grinned Bodin.
The cruiser pulled off into the night, and away. Later that evening, Janelle Mantez and her eager partner helped deliver a baby boy to a 14 year old crack addict in a stinking tenament block not very far from the store, because the paramedics wouldn't go into the area because they kept being used as target practice by the local juveniles. They couldn't shoot back, after all.
Bizarrely, there was a newsie present who took their picture as they came out, Janelle cradling the bawling infant, already in the first stages of withdrawl, in her arms, and it turned up on page five of the local rag.
Janelle got chewed out by the Chief because she wasn't smiling in the picture, which according to him displayed a very negative portrait of his police department.
She only just stopped herself from asking what the hell it was she supposed to smiling about.
You didn't pose that sort of question - did you?
***
The Doctor and Vaidya had split up too. They knew the girl was still in the building somewhere, they just didn't know where.
"Of course," the Doctor had said as he climbed stiffly out of the car, "this could all be some sort of deception on his part."
Vaidya just shrugged.
"Doc, if I learnt anything from being in your presence, it was that one should expect to walk into a trap every five minutes."
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, I've improved over the years, then?"
Vaidya winked. "Like a fine old wine, my friend."
"Hmmm. Less of the old, if you may," he replied sardonically, eyes twinkling in that way only his ever did.
The presence of the two cops were irritating, as both men had hoped not to involve anybody even vaguely official. Official meant questions, and questions meant investigations, "and that," declared the Doctor, "simply is not on."
So first they had to dispense with them. That done, they got on with their mission.
Vaidya crept along the rows of shelving, hands clenched into fists. On his own, he would have carried a weapon, but he knew how the Doctor disapproved of such things, so out of courtesy he hadn't carried one. Truth be told, he was just as lethal without one, a fact the Doctor knew but would certainly never acknowledge. Vaidya still found that attitude odd, under the circumstances, but he never questioned it. He rarely questioned him at all, in fact. It would have been... ungracious, considering.
There was a noise somewhere ahead of him. Groaning. Someone in pain - considerable pain. One of the girls' victims, probably. He, and the Doctor, didn't believe she'd actually go so far as to kill whoever it was she'd attacked. No; the Doctor had explained that that particular function was being saved, and Vaidya knew only too well who it was being saved for.
As it was, it left them with the probability of having to look after several wounded people. How one managed that without going through official channels was something the Doctor hadn't yet explained. Well, not even he could have an answer to every problem straight away...
Vaidya found the victim curled beneath one of the shelves. From the glow of his penlight, Vaidya could tell the youth - no older than a boy, certainly - had been badly mauled, clothing and flesh torn with equally ferocity, but without sufficient violence to merit serious injury. A definite case of worse than it looked, which he was sure was the intention.
He hunkered down and peered at the wounded boy. He had his arms curled around his head for protection, didn't seem aware of Vaidya's presence. The Time Lord reached in and tapped the boy on the leg; he flinched and cried out.
"Easy, easy!" Vaidya soothed. "I'm here to help... just tell me where she went, huh? Just tell me-"
The shelf above him creaked only a fraction of a second before his danger sense jangled, and he hurled himself sideways just as she fell upon him from above. Sharp claws and teeth raked at the back of his neck, and he surprised himself by yelling out, before rolling over and over and kicking out. His feet connected and she vanished again, into the darkness.
Vaidya got shakily to his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. He winced at the stickiness he felt there; blood. He hadn't been quite quick enough.
"Slowing up," he muttered, stooping to pick up his light. Behind him, the boy started sobbing louder, disturbed by the sudden violence. "Oh, shut up," he hissed bad-temperedly. Pain never worked for his compassion, especially his own.
Something came rattling to ground to his right and he broke into a jog towards the sound, light beam flicking across the room. A shadow flitted across it, and vanished. Vaidya paused, allowing his senses to tune in again. He frowned, still rubbing at his neck. This wasn't proving as easy as he'd hoped...
"It should be working now," murmured a voice behind him. He spun round, and there she was, leaning against a shelf behind him. How she got there was a testament to her lupine abilities. He kept his voice light and level as he advanced towards her.
"Oh yes? And what might that be?"
She raised a hand. The light beam caught on the needle that jutted from the tip of its index finger.
Vaidya froze.
"What was in it?" he whispered.
She smiled, showing all her teeth in all their natural glory. But strangely, the sight didn't bother him.
Quite the opposite.
"You're about to find out," she purred.
She slinked towards him, pale skin luminous beneath the light beam. She'd discarded the blanket, and though Vaidya tried not to look... he found he couldn't help it. Something was...
Wrong.
He stumbled backwards, tried to call out, but his feet seemed to tangle together, and he fell. There was a blur of motion and she was there, catching him, lowering him to the ground.
He tried to fight, found he couldn't.
Worse, he found he didn't want to.
She pushed him to the floor, settled across him, pressing him down, her face - those teeth - bare milimetres from his. She was still smiling, but when she spoke, it was in soothing, relaxing tones.
"Don't fight it," she whispered. "Let it work. Let it release that part of you you've denied for so long... embrace it... as I embrace you."
With that, she pressed her mouth to his, and a great darkness descended upon him.
But dimly, before he passed out, he heard something howling...
That something was him.
***
The Doctor straightened up with a grunt from the unconscious form at his feet. Another of the youths. Torn and shredded, just like the other one he'd found, and in a state of deep shock. The Doctor wasn't in the least surprised.
"But what will I do with you?" he murmured, shaking his head.
"Why do anything?" a voice rasped behind him. "Even by human standards, they are quite worthless."
The Doctor smiled tightly, and nodded, knowingly, but didn't turn round. He knew who it was.
"Everyone has a worthiness. No matter how apparently insignificant, weak, corrupt, or wicked... everyone means something. Even these unfortunates."
A heavy sigh. "You always were a romantic, weren't you?"
"Always. So, you did come, after all."
"You expected me?" Mild surprise.
"Where she went, I surmised you'd follow."
"How perceptive."
"Indeed."
He turned round. The figure before him was massive, though most of its bulk remained shrouded in shadow - as was its way.
"This won't do, you know," he said, in the manner of a school master reprimanding a pupil for a particularly naughty prank. "This won't do at all."
"You dare would lecture me about the merits of right and wrong?"it hissed in mocking disbelief, before breaking into a thick, throaty bubbling laugh. "Oh, this is indeed a unique evening!"
The Doctor's eyes turned to flint. "Unique, indeed, as it shall never be repeated."
"Oh yes? I believe the expression is, says you."
The Doctor nodded grimly. "Indeed. Says I. Now then," he sniffed, "let's set to putting an end to this debacle, shall we? My time is precious, as much as yours."
"No, old friend... no. My time is infinitely more precious. And you of all people should know why."
"The same applies to you. You know why I cannot allow this."
"And you know why I must attempt it. Impasse."
"No," the Doctor shook his head slowly but sadly. "No, not an impasse. You cannot win," he said, stressing the last two words heavily. "Cannot."
"Oh? Look..."
A mighty hand flicked out from the darkness and a talon extended from it. The Doctor followed the path of where it was pointing, narrowed his eyes owlishly at what appeared.
Vaidya, and the girl. He was was leading her by the hand, towards him, head bowed, face seemingly creased in concentration. She was wearing his jacket, floated inside it, looking pale and huddled beneath it, supine, beaten.
A small smile of relief graced the Doctors' lips.
"See?" he murmured.
But the figure simply laughed.
"No... you see."
At that, Vaidya raised his head. Grinned.
His mouth was full of fangs. His eyes glowed amber in the dark.
Then he threw back his head and howled...



