Werewolf Stories to Tell in the Dark (6 page)

Cursed, thought Sarah. Of course they are.

Lying sleepless in her bunk, Sarah heard the terrible howling as the wolves were discharged, the huge steel plates revolving, the bottom of the tank sliding away, the pack drowning in the surging cold of the dark, deep water of the fiord. Sarah turned over, burying her face
in the pillow, but she couldn't shut out the cries that now sounded so pitifully human.

‘
Did any of the wolves survive?' asked Ian
.

Anne shook her head. ‘I don't think so.' Then she added more firmly, ‘I'm sure they didn't. How could they
?'

No one replied. Suppose they
had
reached the mainland. The thought of their strong forelegs pulling them out on to some rocky shore filled Alan's mind
.

‘
I've got a story,' Terry said
.

The Grove Estate was steel grey, gloomy and desolate, composed of six high-rise blocks. The flats were scheduled for demolition in the near future, but for the moment were being kept open for a few sitting tenants and some families that had become homeless and were being temporarily rehoused.

Tim's family was a case in point. His dad had been a builder, but when he went bankrupt their home had been repossessed and the council gave them accommodation on the estate. The squalor of their new surroundings came as a severe shock; their small semi-detached house, with its rockery and strip of lawn, had always been so clean and neat. The entrance to their tower block was full of litter and the lifts were filthy, covered in graffiti, smelt horrible and were often out of use, which meant that the few remaining residents had to clamber up and down concrete stairways that were always sinister in the permanent half-light.

Street gangs roamed the wasteland below and the blocks echoed day and night with their shouts, the revving of stolen cars and the plaintive howling of the occasional stray dog. Tim's father described his family's feelings exactly when he said that climbing up to their
flat on the tenth floor was like ‘ascending into hell'. Worse still, the Parkers had arrived in a heat wave and the rancid smell was at its height.

They only had one neighbour – a reclusive middle-aged lady who, the housing officer said, was called Mrs Bishop and had a daughter of about Tim's age called Angie. But the Parkers never saw any sign of Angie – only Mrs Bishop returning with heavy shopping bags and a surly nod. Another mystery was that there was a complete absence of graffiti on the tenth floor and none of the marauding, vicious-looking street gangs ever came near.

A few days after moving in, Tim started at his new school. The lift wasn't working, so he was about to run down the concrete stairs when he noticed the very first piece of graffiti he had ever seen scrawled across the wall. Normally it simply bore the stark legend FLOOR TEN, but now Tim saw that the word BEWARE had been added.

Tim heard the sound of footsteps clacking down the passageway behind him and Mrs Bishop emerged, looking angry, with a tin of white paint and a brush. When she saw Tim she paused uneasily.

‘Morning,' Tim muttered.

‘They're at it again,' she said. She put down the can, opened it, dipped her brush in and began to slap paint over the word. ‘The council ought to be doing this. But you never see them. Not round here.'

‘I'd love to meet your daughter,' began Tim innocently, seizing his opportunity. ‘There's no one around here my age.'

‘Angie doesn't go out,' snapped Mrs Bishop dismissively. ‘Not anywhere.'

‘Why doesn't Angie go out?' asked Tim hesitantly.

‘Sick.'

‘What kind of sick?'

‘You're curious, aren't you?' Mrs Bishop's voice was razor sharp.

‘Sorry …' The last thing he wanted to do was to offend her. ‘I didn't mean to pry.'

‘She's been sick for a long time,' Mrs Bishop admitted grudgingly.

‘What's wrong with her?' Tim persisted.

‘She's got a weak heart, poor mite. The doctor's ordered complete rest, and unless Angie gets that rest –' Mrs Bishop's voice shook, and Tim was shocked by the fear in her eyes. He felt very sorry for her; she was obviously on her own and without help.

‘Can I do anything for her?' he asked politely.

‘Oh no. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all,' replied Mrs Bishop, the barriers going up again.

‘I wouldn't excite her.'

‘I'm sorry …'

‘Just sit and talk.'

‘No. Dr Dunstan has forbidden any company. She has to have complete quiet.'

‘How long for? I mean –'

Mrs Bishop drew herself up indignantly, as if he had been rude. ‘As long as it takes,' she said angrily. ‘You're all the same, you boys. Prying – asking questions – harrying folk. I'm not putting up with it, I tell you. I know
my
business – and how to mind it.' Mrs Bishop slapped the lid back on to the paint tin and walked hurriedly away, her brush dripping paint on to the concrete floor.

‘I'm sorry,' yelled Tim after her. ‘I didn't mean to –'

But Mrs Bishop had disappeared round the corner.

Although Tim knew he had somehow mishandled the meeting, he couldn't for the life of him think how he
could have done any better. He felt desperately sorry for Mrs Bishop, all alone with her sick daughter, but what was he to do? He had no friends either.

Tim was so preoccupied with the problem as he ran out of the tower block entrance that he cannoned into a tall girl who was talking to a boy with a skinhead haircut and tattoos of snakes on his muscular arms.

‘You look where you're going,' said the boy aggressively.

‘Sorry,' said Tim. He seemed to have spent all his time apologizing lately, and he was beginning to hate the hostile Grove Estate.

‘It's the kid from Floor Ten,' said the tall girl. She had dreadlocks and a pale skin, but her eyes weren't unfriendly – they looked as afraid as Mrs Bishop's. Tim wondered why.

‘Murder Row,' said the boy.

‘What?'

‘They call Floor Ten Murder Row. Two bodies in eighteen months – each with their throats ripped out.' He paused melodramatically. ‘They were dossers,' he explained. ‘Getting a night's kip – or trying to. We reckon that Mrs Bishop did it. She's out of her mind, that one. Keeps her kid a prisoner. Real psycho.'

He paused for effect, while the tall girl added, ‘Social worker's been up there and all, but Mrs B saw her off. She's a monster, she is.' She kept her eyes fixed on Tim, hoping to draw him out, wondering what he knew. ‘You seen Mrs B?' she prompted.

‘Yeah. Just had a chat with her,' Tim said casually.

The other two looked at him with new respect.

‘She was painting out some graffiti. Someone had written BEWARE next to FLOOR TEN, just above the stairs. She went bananas.'

‘Just a warning, like,' said the boy. He was nervous now. ‘People shouldn't hang around up there.'

‘That's what she thinks,' replied Tim briskly.

Mrs Bishop's got everyone running scared, he thought, and as the first day at his new school drew to a close, Tim was beginning to feel nervous about returning to Floor Ten. But his dread wasn't just to do with the mystery of Mrs Bishop but included the cheerless picture of his mother, who had no doubt been sitting indoors most of the day, mourning the loss of their home, and his father probably returning from a fruitless search for work.

The heat was intense when Tim returned, and the tower blocks shimmered in the haze of the late afternoon sun. Although it was cooler inside, there was a dankness which made him shudder. The lift was still out of action, and as he raced up the stairs he saw that a new message had been paint-sprayed over the staircase: WELCOME TO MURDER ROW. Mrs Bishop would have to get out her paintbrush again.

After a gloomy evening watching TV, with his parents quietly bickering, Tim went to bed but couldn't sleep in the hot and sticky atmosphere of the sweltering night. Waking from a troubled doze at about three, he was so hot that he couldn't bear to be in bed any longer. He got up, went to the bathroom, washed his face with tepid water and then wondered what to do. The thought of going back to bed was awful, and Tim went to the fridge, took out some cold milk and drank deeply. The desperate cry from outside made him almost drop the bottle.

*

For a second Tim waited, wondering if his parents had heard, but when no one stirred he ran to the door and opened it. In the gloom of the pale neon, he saw a figure slumped down at the far end of the corridor. As Tim hovered uncertainly in the doorway someone else emerged from the shadows and he recognized the boy with tattooed arms.

He paused and then ran over to Tim, his eyes bloodshot, the sweat standing out on his forehead. ‘If I hadn't come –' he whispered.

‘What happened?'

‘I heard a cry and came up. He was lying there.'

‘Who?'

‘That old dosser.'

‘Is he dead?'

‘No, but he's been attacked.'

As they ran back down the corridor, Tim could see an old man staggering to his feet.

‘I was having a kip,' he protested. ‘When I woke up someone had their teeth in me chest. Fought 'em off somehow …' His voice petered out, his shoulders heaving and blood dripping from underneath his filthy shirt.

‘Look at that,' said the boy with the tattoos. ‘Just look at that.'

Tim saw that Mrs Bishop's door was wide open.

‘That wound needs stitches,' said Tim. ‘It'll go septic if you don't go down to Casualty.'

‘I'll take him,' said the boy, who seemed very anxious to get off the tenth floor landing. He kept darting glances at the open door.

Grudgingly the old man allowed himself to be escorted away, leaving Tim standing alone.

*

Tim hesitated, watching the pale light flooding from the open door, listening to the silence. He wasn't a particularly brave person but he did have a conscience. He couldn't leave the situation unresolved like this, however terrifying the possibilities were. The heat was like a wall in front of him, and Tim was streaming with sweat, the fear pulsing inside him.

Tim managed a couple of steps towards Mrs Bishop's open door and then paused, feeling sick with apprehension. She was in there, just behind the door, waiting for him. He tried to close his mind to the terrible thoughts but they kept recurring, pounding at him, making him want to run back to his own flat and bolt the door against the horror of it all. But despite all this, he slowly walked on.

At last he was at the open door, seeing a small hall just like his own. The silence seemed to bite deeper as Tim crossed the threshold.

‘Anyone there?' he called softly, and then, a little more loudly, ‘Anyone in?'

But there was no reply.

He walked on, treading softly, the heat so intense now he felt faint. Through one open door he could see a kitchen, through another a very ordinary sitting-room with a reassuring calender showing a picture of Margate and a flight of ducks rising against the patterned wallpaper. The TV set had a copy of the
Radio Times
underneath it and everything was reassuringly normal. Feeling a little better, Tim came to the next open door.

A young girl with long brown hair lay asleep in the bed, curled up tightly on her side. Then suddenly she turned over, and in the dim glow of a night-light Tim could see the hair on her face and arms.

He screamed and the girl woke up, eyes widening in
fear under her bushy brown eyebrows. But then strong arms caught him from behind and Tim struggled helplessly to free himself.

He staggered as he was released and flung aside, aware now that Mrs Bishop was standing over him in a dressing-gown, her eyes filled with hatred.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘The door was open,' stammered Tim. ‘I thought something was wrong.'

He saw that Mrs Bishop was shaking with anger, a hammer clasped tightly in her right hand. Tim began to explain about the attack on the dosser, but while he was doing so, he was wondering about the girl in the bed behind him. She was far more frightening than the hammer. Why was she covered with all that brown hair?

‘Malcolm Hayes,' muttered Mrs Bishop. ‘The boy with the tattoos. There's something about him that – She shuddered. ‘They sent him away to hospital, but he keeps coming back. His mother can't control him. I'm waiting for another killing.'

‘You mean –' Tim couldn't work out whether to believe her or not. And that girl …

‘He used to attack dogs,' continued Mrs Bishop. ‘Hayes used to bite …' But her voice died away.

Tim turned slowly to face the girl, who was now sitting up, staring at him in abject misery, staring at him through all that coarse brown hair.

Mrs Bishop was watching him. ‘She gets hot – that's why we had the door open tonight. I was sitting up in my bedroom.' She sighed. ‘I don't sleep much nights anyway. She's got such a weak heart, and she can't speak either – and then there's the – the other problem. I keep her close by me. That gang used to nickname her
“the werewolf”.' Mrs Bishop's voice shook. ‘I've tried to have something done, but it just grows back.' There were tears in her eyes now, and the girl turned over and buried her face in the pillow. ‘I'm all alone with her,' said Mrs Bishop. ‘All alone.'

Tim slowly backed away. Then he turned and ran, stumbling over the mat in the hallway, desperate to get home and bolt his door, to feel safe and normal again. There was something quite appalling about the little girl's imploring eyes peering through all that rough brown hair.

Next morning the old dosser was found dead in a skip. Tim spent a good deal of time with the police, explaining all he had seen and heard, and Malcolm Hayes, protesting his innocence, was arrested. Throughout his trial, Hayes claimed that Angie, the ‘werewolf kid', had committed all the murders, but there was no supporting evidence and he was found guilty and received a sentence of life imprisonment in Broadmoor.