The Last Werewolf

you anytime. It was as if we’d been having a conversation and he or she just said this, quietly.

“Who are you?” I said to the young man.

He didn’t answer, but very sadly got to his feet, left forearm cradled close. The pain would be transforming the limb into something big and hot and beyond placation. With careful effort he bent, retrieved the Magnum, put it back into his coat pocket. Then without a word or further look at me he turned and began trudging away.

I didn’t doubt my reading, my risk assessment, my temporary safety, but those first steps out from the shelter of the doorway called for force of will. I took three and stopped. Pictured the sniper watching through the cross-hairs and, since every mutual understanding gives some sort of pleasure, smiling. My back livened to all the clean cold space behind me for a silver bullet to fly through. The smell of the falling snow was a mercy, though I was sure my clothes had picked up the doorway’s vicious scent of old piss. I took four more steps, five, six … ten. Nothing happened.

The warmth of being watched never left me, but I walked to Gloucester Road without incident and boarded the last Circle Line Tube to Farringdon.

Harley had called and left a message while I was underground. He’d made it to the Foundation safely.

4

IT’S HARD NOT to think of 1965, the year I saved Harley’s life, as one of rising sexual anarchy. Anti–Vietnam War demonstrations brought young men and women together and revealed the erotic potential of political activism. Mailer’s taboo-breaking An American Dream was published. Brigitte Bardot was on all the U.S. magazine covers and in England it emerged that Myra Hindley and Ian Brady got turned on by murdering children. If not quite Anything Goes, then certainly Everything’s Going On.

It’s hard not to think this way, but to do so is to succumb to the compressions of popular history. The facts are true, the interpretation false. The 1965 contemporary humans imagine didn’t really come about till 1975, and even by that jaded year what happened to Harley that night would still have happened. It was still happening ten years later, twenty, thirty. It’s still happening now.

Wayland’s Smithy is a five-thousand-year-old megalithic tomb in the Vale of Uffington, a mile east of the village of Ashbury, just southwest of White Horse Hill in the Berkshire Downs. It sits hidden by a little gathering of trees fifty yards off the Ridgeway, a chalk track following the line of the Downs Homo sapiens have been walking (knuckles gradually leaving the ground) for more than a quarter of a million years. Local legend is that if you leave your horse by the tomb with a coin on the lintel stone you can return to find it shod by Wayland, the smith of the old Saxon gods. During the day people stroll up from White Horse Hill, take photos, poke around, lower their voices, don’t linger. The stones exude meat-freezer cold. At night the place is deserted.

They’d taken Harley there to torture him.

I shouldn’t have been there. I should have been behind my own bars in the cellar of a purpose-acquired farmhouse a mile away. (Ah, the machinations of those premicrotechnology days! My cell contained a cast-iron safe with the key to the door taped inside it. The safe was welded shut, but with a hole in it just big enough to admit a human hand. A human hand. Once I’d Changed I had to wait until I’d Changed back. The simplest solutions are always the best.) I should, I repeat, have been under lock and key, self-gaoled and self- sedated, but at the last moment I’d weakened. I was in a phase of one kill every other full moon (less ethics than fear of the Hunt, who’d been on a recruitment drive since the postwar revelations of Nazi occultism) but abstinence was agony, even with the barbiturates, the benzodiazepines, the chloroform, the ether. That night I’d paused at the top of the cellar steps, contemplated the hours ahead. You go down, you take the drugs, you suffer near-death, you come through. You’re still alive and you haven’t killed anyone. Well, yes. But. The bare walls, the bars, the stone- flagged floor, the cheerful solid fatuous safe. Even underground the rising full moon like the Virgin Mary on a bed saying please, please, please just fuck me, will you?

With a physical gurn and a mental bollocks to it, I turned and went back upstairs …

The initial impulse, to descend like the Angel of Death on the nearest farm or village, didn’t last. It was a mad little fantasy born of a month without live meat. Besides, I was an old dog by this time. I’d long since rarefied into dalliance and deferral. You let the Hunger run you for a while, give the lupine lineaments a workout. The muscles fire up, allow near-complete dissolution of consciousness into animal joy. You run and the night goes over you like cold silk. I crossed the Oxford–Didcot railway line north of Abingdon, swam the icy Thames, ran east into the Chiltern Hills almost as far as the London road. The Byrds’ “Mr. Tambourine Man” had that week been displaced from number one by the Beatles’ idiotic “Help!” Both songs went irritatingly round in my head like a pair of unshooable flies. The Hunger does this, seizes some arbitrary detail and makes it an incantation or totem, a maddening recurrence. Eventually I killed and ate. On the edge of the village of Checkendon an insomniac old duffer stood in his back garden smoking a roll-up, gazing blankly at his moonlit vegetable patch. He gasped, once, when I knocked the wind out of him, but that was the only sound he made. He’d survived the Somme, killed a man in a brawl in Ostend, discovered the peace of growing food in his own ground, the queer miracle of tubers torn up from the soil. Love, way back, was a scrawny Margate tea-shop girl with dark corkscrewy hair who’d sent him into a Lawrentian blood-drowse of certainty. They’d walked out together for three months and the night before he joined his regiment made long, dreamy love in a friend’s purposely vacated room with the window open and the smell of the sea coming in. Then war and the odd ordinariness of horrors. Limbs lying around like big doll parts. You lose things. Overhear them saying, He’s not the same. His libido remained a creature of frisky cunning: a stash of mouldy adult magazines behind the creosote tins in the shed, a blasphemous erection the other day with one of the grandkids on his lap, even Nell’s old fat arse after all these years grist to the shameless mill. God could go to hell after what he’d seen, Jones’s blown-off head rolling down the trench, Sterne with maggots living in his foot where the toes had gone—

I left his remains among the blood-drenched cabbages. Slipped from the village back into the woods. Disgust came in the hour after feeding but the years had reduced it to a heavy suave embrace. Disgust doesn’t kill anyone. Loneliness, on the other hand …

At Wayland’s Smithy an hour before dawn I stopped to observe. There wasn’t, really, time to stop and observe. The farmhouse (for current purposes home) was a mile away through sparse cover. This was high ground at the mercy year-round to Valhallan winds. Trees were few. Hedgerows were thin. Darkness, or at the very least twilight, would be required to get home unseen. Nonetheless. Here were the prehistoric stones roused to sentience. Here was the air dense with human stinks, jabbering with primal energies. A Cortina was parked nearby. My flesh steamed. The last of my victim’s life found settlement in me.

By the entrance to the tomb—a soft oblong of deeper darkness between upright sarsens—two men were intent on something I couldn’t see. A third kept lookout where the trees opened onto the track.

“Terry, I should have the torch,” this third one hissed. “It’s fucking pitch-black over here.”

The balance of power was evident. “Terry,” in his thirties and older by perhaps ten years than the other two, was in charge. He was the bearer of the torch. The beam swung, picked out the sentry—a small-eyed face of boyish sweetness, fair hair, one hand raised against the glare—then returned with disturbing precision to its original object.

“Arse-bandit,” Terry’s nearer accomplice said, quietly. “He’s probably enjoying this.”

“Get him out again,” Terry said. “Come on, Fido, out you come.”

“Oi, bum-boy, chop-chop.”

“He’s … Gimmie a hand, Dez.”

Between them Terry and Dez dragged their victim into the open. A lean young man with curled-under long hair, a high forehead, slender wrists and ankles. They’d tied his hands and gagged him. His shirt was still nominally on his back but apart from this and one dark sock he was naked. He lay on his side, not unconscious, but beaten to the point where merely drawing his knees up—the reflex to protect the soft organs—was almost beyond him.

“Come on,” the lookout hissed. “It’s going to be fucking daylight soon.”

“One minute he’s moaning about pitch-black,” Terry said, “the next he’s on about daylight.”

“Shut up, Georgie, for fuck’s sake,” Dez said. He took a swig from a bottle of Haig, passed it to Terry. Terry