Mansfield with Monsters (21 page)

“I like you awfully as you are,” he said, and he held her tighter. “Kiss me.”

Then Rosemary said dreamily: “I couldn't decide between red or white roses for to-night so I got both. And four dozen tulips as well.”

Phillip jumped her on his knee. “Of course you did, my wasteful little huntress,” said he.

Rosemary fixed her smile on him and playfully undid his tie. “You'll need to dress for dinner soon too. It's going to be a full moon party to remember.”

“They always are.”

 

 

The evening of the hunt was a triumph. Rosemary's dinner played out like a perfectly orchestrated performance—a procession of elegant courses with sparkling crystal goblets dancing up and down from smiling mouths. At last Phillip stood at the end of the table.

“Ladies, gentlemen. The hour of our hunt draws near. I suggest we retire to the balcony.”

Polite applause gave way to excited whispers and the sound of chairs scraping on the floor as the guests rose.

Phillip opened the French doors and gestured for Rosemary to walk out into the beckoning embrace of the moon-light. “After you, my darling.”

Her dark eyes gleamed with hunger and she swept out on to the balcony. Phillip followed, and the party moved into the darkness in his wake. Rosemary listened to her guests' footsteps as she clutched the bone-white balustrade and raised her face to the full moon, breathing in the sweet night air. She felt the familiar twitch in her jaw. Hurriedly, she undressed, drinking in the moon-light as it fell on to her naked body, and shuddering as the transformation began. She could hear Phillip breathing heavily beside her. Behind them the other guests were panting and gasping as the ecstasy of the moon's touch summoned their inner wolves. She turned to look at Phillip. His chest glistened with sweat, the muscles rippling as they expanded, dancing beneath his skin. With a shudder his jaw distended and his open-mouthed gasp turned into a howl as his rapid and intense transformation came to its peak. But Rosemary had no time to admire the magnificent black creature coming into being at her side; the electrifying change that coursed through her body could wait no longer. It took over and drowned out the world.

Her back arched and her limbs stretched, desperate and urgent, as though they desired the transformation more than she. Her bones and muscles distorted, and she felt a rush of euphoria as her body twisted.

A moment later a gleaming russet wolf glided over the balcony rail, chasing its larger black mate. Their pack followed after, panting with delight as they charged across the estate's moonlit garden and into the nearby forest.

Once in the shadow of the trees the beasts' senses soared to their full intensity. The air, redolent of every creature that had passed through the woods, tickled their noses, and the racing heartbeats of rabbits in their burrows and the sound of the wind caressing the leaves played in their ears as their paws pounded against the earth. A tantalising array of smells called to them from every corner of the forest, but they resisted, the bonds of the pack keeping them focused on their common hunt.

The black wolf howled; he had caught the scent of that night's prey. Rosemary sniffed the air and her lip curled in a smile—a vagrant man, his scent heavy with liquor and unwashed clothes. He wasn't far, less than a mile away, probably on the outskirts of the woods by the main road. The pack followed their leader, their teeth gleaming white and their breath heavy and wet in anticipation.

Within minutes they had closed in, crossing through the woods as swiftly as a cloud's shadow passing across the moon's face. The black wolf slowed, and growled softly. In a heartbeat the pack arranged themselves behind him, bodies sunk down until their stomachs almost touched the ground, and crept on silent paws towards a sleeping man, his head propped against a tree, an old bag serving as a rough pillow.

Rosemary hung back as the other wolves stalked forward. She would let them have their fun, let them toy with the helpless creature, chase him deep into the forest and make him bleed, but when the time came, at the last possible second, she would leap in and rip out the man's throat. She looked up at the bright silver drops of moon-light falling through the trees, and inhaled the night air.

That scent. She caught a faint thread of it in the air—unmistakeable—the girl. She must have passed on this very road as she returned to the town. Rosemary bowed her head, trying to shake the new, distracting smell from her nostrils, but she could feel the temptation clawing at her, could taste the girl in her throat.

She gritted her teeth and took another step towards the vagrant. She tried to concentrate on him as he stirred, but the cravings awoken by the other scent were too strong. Without a backward glance she bounded through the last few rows of trees and set off down the road, one deep growl from Phillp forbidding any others from pursuing her, for their prey had woken, eyes wide, mouth agape as he stumbled back and tried to summon a scream, and they had no choice but to finish their hunt and leave her to her own quarry.

No matter—in fact, perhaps better if she was alone. Rosemary travelled faster by herself, tearing through the night as silent as the shadows. She passed the edge of the wood, slowed and sniffed the air, crept into town and slipped through the streets, avoiding the weary, liquor-washed eyes of those few souls who stumbled through the darkened streets. The trail led her to a narrow alley-way without a single gas lamp or lit window to soften the hard black of night. But she had no need of light. The delicious scent shone brighter than the moon itself.

She found the girl curled up like a child on the doorstep of a vacant shop. Creeping forward, Rosemary breathed in her smell. In spite of her rough clothes and unwashed hair the scent was sweet, alluring. Pretty.

The girl's eyes opened, sensing the warmth—or perhaps the danger—of the wolf's breath on her cheek. She flinched and opened her mouth, but it was too late.

Rosemary lunged and tore out the girl's throat before she could make a sound. She sunk her fangs into the girl's tender flesh, bite after bite, gorging on her prey with a savage hunger she had never before known. She lost herself in the kill and the blood, and left nothing on the doorstep but an unrecognisable mess of gore and the torn remains of a scarlet coat.

 

 

She returned home long before Phillip. The servants knew better than to stay up for their masters on a full moon night, and the door from the balcony had been left open, the servant's quarters no doubt locked and one of the men sitting awake with a gun across his knee. Rosemary smiled at the thought as she padded inside and made her way up to the bed-room.

Her fur was wet and matted with blood, and the sweet, metallic taste was still thick in her mouth, but all she wanted to do was lie down, sleep. Her belly was swollen uncomfortably with the weight of her kill as she leapt onto the bed. She breathed in the musky scent of Phillip that lingered on the bed-clothes, and then she curled up and fell into a heavy slumber.

Phillip woke her gently. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, both of them in human form once more. Rosemary opened her eyes. Thin cracks of light pushed through a gap in the curtains. It couldn't be long after sunrise.

“You looked so peaceful I didn't like to wake you,” Phillip said with a wry smile. “But the maid will be up with your tea soon, darling, and it won't do for her to find you like this.”

Rosemary looked down at the lacy bedspread. The smeared stains that surrounded her looked like a crimson shadow on the white fabric. She was still naked, and the girl's blood had dried on her skin. She put her hands to her face. The crust of blood on her lips and cheeks felt rough, brittle.

“You gave us quite a fright when you made off like that last night.”

“Did I, darling?” Rosemary slipped off the bed and stood in front of him, fixing him with her dreamy gaze. “I'm sorry. It was just one of those impulsive whims of mine.”

But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.

“Phillip,” she whispered, and she sat on his knee and pressed his head against her blood-caked bosom. “Am I pretty?”

The Fly

“Y'are very snug in here,” piped old Mr Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green-leather arm-chair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his… stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed… Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him.

Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, “It's snug in here, upon my word!”

“Yes, it's comfortable enough,” agreed the boss, and he flipped thCommonwealth Timewith a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.

“I've had it done up lately,” he explained, as he had explained for the past—how many?—weeks. “New carpet,” and he pointed to the bright red carpet patterned in white with the symbol of the Commonwealth Heroes League. “New furniture,” and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. “Electric heating!” He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. “Telegraph and direct telephone lines to every hero in the country!”

But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in a striking uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. The boy wore a mask and cape, and lightning crackled between his extended palms. It was not new. It had been there for over six years.

“There was something I wanted to tell you,” said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. “Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.” His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. Orange flames sprung out from his watery eyes, rose to engulf his head as he struggled to remember. He let out a sigh, slumped back in the chair, and the flames evaporated.

Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, “I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurt a child.” He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. “That's the medicine,” said he. “And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windsor Castle.”

Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a shard of space-hardened cryptolite or a radioactive spider.

“It's whisky, ain't it?” he piped feebly.

The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.

“D'you know,” said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, “they won't let me touch it at home.” And he looked as though he was going to cry.

“Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies,” cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. The tips of his shoes scraped across the carpet as he flew in close to Woodifield, handed him a glass. “Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!” He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.

The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, “It's nutty!”

But it warmed him; it crept into his chilled old brain—he remembered.

“That was it,” he said, heaving himself out of his chair. He looked down at his cigar, winked its tip back into flame. “I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it seems.”

Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard.

“The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,” piped the old voice. “Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home. You've not been across, have yer?”

“No, no!” For various reasons the boss had not been across.

“There's miles of it,” quavered old Woodifield, “and it's all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.” It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path. “And the regular soldiers all surrounding the heroes' graves, there at the centre. All our super sons together.”

The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.

“D'you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?” he piped. “Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They think because we're over there, where the last of ours met the last of theirs and tore down the sky, having a look round at the scorched earth those boys left, that we're ready to pay anything. Never have tried it on us in our day, eh? Nor our boys, I bet. Robbery, that's what it is.” And he turned towards the door.

“Quite right, quite right!” cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone.

For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: “I'll see nobody for half an hour, Macey,” said the boss. “Understand? Nobody at all.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door shut, the boss floated morosely across the bright carpet, his fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep…

It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his mask and cape, asleep for ever. “My son, The Blue Bolt!” groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first few months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up his son's skills, honing his powers of flight and lightning; the Commonwealth Heroes League had no other meaning if it was not for the future, for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on Earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept fighting evil and sending heroes into danger all those years without the promise forever before him of the boy's stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off, facing the unknowable perils of the universe on mankind's behalf?

And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the League learning the ropes for a year before the war. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! No wonder; he had taken to it marvellously. His pitched battle with the beast from the Crab Nebula had lit the sky for three nights and had saved all of Antarctica. Along with the Titan Taniwha he had worked tirelessly to clear landslides and rubble after debris from the doomed Jovian invasion fleet pelted the West Coast and cut off Hokitika completely. As to his popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make enough of the boy. And he wasn't the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, “Simply splendid!” after every fight.

But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The Kaiser's Superforce had to be stopped. The League had mobilized all its men. Doom awaited them all in the verdant hills. The day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. “Deeply regret to inform you…” And he had left the office a broken man, with his life and the League in ruins.

Six years ago, six years… How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. Every active hero in the league, every last one. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He raised a hand and gestured at the boy's photograph and it slid silently across the desk toward him. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that.

At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for life again.

But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leant his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. The League spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of… But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leant over the fly and said to it tenderly, “You artful little b…” And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.

It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen.

“Come on,” said the boss. “Look sharp!” And he stirred it with his pen—in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.

The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. A droplet of ink, no bigger than the fly's eye, flew from the corpse and landed on the carpet, on the white logo of the League. Such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized the boss that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell.

The door swung open, and Macey stepped into the room.

“Bring me the Necromancer's tome from the secure vault,” the boss said sternly, “and look sharp about it.”

Macey grew pale at the mention of the indestructible dread book, locked away for so many years, but he obeyed. And while the old dog padded away the boss fell to wondering what cost the reanimation of a fly could really have. The boss himself had defeated the Necromancer in the earliest days of the League, returned his foul army to their graves. Yet, before he was vanquished he had delivered a warning. A warning about power. What was it? It was… He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.