Werewolf Stories to Tell in the Dark (9 page)

‘Another problem's arisen,' said Geoff one day when he and Brad were walking along the smooth sand, the fingers of surf curling around their ankles. ‘A problem with the Guardian.'

‘The Guardian?' asked Brad in bewilderment. ‘Who's the Guardian?'

‘The man who found her. He adopted Susan and provided enough funds to get her here. His name is Gilbert Johnson and he's – well, all I can describe him as is a showman. He runs a small private zoo in LA and has interests in a touring show called “Freaks”. It's been banned here in the States, but it still travels in Europe. The show's sick.'

‘It sounds it. But do you mean Johnson could exploit Susan?'

‘We're worried that he might,' Geoff admitted.

‘Does he have plans?'

‘He denies it all. Says he just wants Susan to be with him, to grow up a normal girl and he'll take care of her.'

‘But you're suspicious?'

‘We all are.'

‘Aren't there any laws to protect her?'

‘Not that we can find. To all intents and purposes, Johnson just wants the best for Susan.'

‘What
is
the best for Susan?' Brad asked him.

Geoff shrugged. ‘Probably to go back to her own kind. But that's impossible now.'

‘The wolves?' Brad was amazed.

‘She'd been with them for twelve years.'

‘What does she look like?' asked Brad eagerly, grasping the opportunity to ask some questions.

‘Like any human being. I can't tell you any more, Brad. You know why.'

But Brad could sense that he wanted to. ‘You can trust me,' he pleaded.

Geoff looked at him thoughtfully for a minute and then his face relaxed. ‘I know I can. It's a relief to talk to someone. I'm just worried that – we're doing such a detailed assessment of Susan and her abilities that – well, my concern is that we're all part of the exploitation process. She should have remained with the pack.'

‘Is she unhappy?'

‘She was at first. But she's got a little more used to us.'

‘What about Johnson?'

‘She hates him.'

‘You're sure of that?' Brad was bewildered. If she hated Johnson so much then how could he ever have persuaded Susan away from the wolves? Then he realized what must have happened. ‘You mean he abducted her?'

‘I don't know,' said Geoff cautiously. ‘I've got no evidence. Johnson's coming here tomorrow so maybe I'll find out more.'

‘I hope you do.' Brad's imagination was seized by Susan's plight.

‘You're not to tell anyone what I've told you.'

‘I won't. But let me ask you one more question, Dad.'

‘Well – what is it?' He was impatient and guarded now, as if he were beginning to regret telling his son so much.

‘Would the wolves have gone on accepting her? I mean – OK – she's twelve. But what would happen when she became a woman?'

‘I believe they
would
have gone on accepting her, but of course I can't be sure. There's only one thing I
can
be
sure of in this case: that she's clearly much happier with animals than human beings and, in my opinion, the simple reason is that she
is
an animal.'

Brad could see that his father was very fired up and he suddenly felt concerned for him. Ever since the divorce he had become obsessive, taking up a cause here and a cause there, dropping one for another, and somehow getting angrier and more sorrowful each time.

Brad knew that his father depended on him, but he also knew he could never give him what he really wanted – and that was his confidence back again.

Brad slowly realized Susan had become his father's latest crusade; he could see that haunted look back in his eyes – a look that he feared might lead to a breakdown. He, too, missed his mother, who had run off with one of his father's ex-colleagues and was now in Virginia, but Brad had managed to work at least some of his sorrow out in the surf, and he found the ocean a great comforter, with its caressing waves and all-enveloping breakers.

The next morning he was out in the surf again, curving along a mountainous crest on his board, the sky above him a meridian blue and the unit and its cluster of buildings white blocks just above the rippling sand of the shoreline.

As Brad was wading back through the surf he spotted a tall man standing on the beach, looking out thoughtfully at the glittering ocean. He wore a white suit and the early morning light played on him dazzlingly. He was deeply tanned and had a long, waxed moustache, but rather than being an affectation, it seemed to enhance the sense of purpose that Brad could actually feel as a physical force. Then he saw his father approaching the
man and gesturing him towards some rocks. Slowly Brad walked through the surf towards them, knowing he shouldn't eavesdrop but unable to resist the temptation to do so.

‘It's enough.' The voice had an edge to it. ‘Susan isn't happy.'

Brad suddenly realized that this was Gilbert Johnson and he listened even more attentively.

‘How do you make that out?' snapped his father.

‘I
know
her.'

‘But why bring her out here if you're going to take her away so quickly?'

‘I wanted to know her capacity – and her potential.' Johnson sounded very anxious.

‘We're still working on that.'

‘I know enough. Besides – I have a contract to fulfil.'

‘A contract?' His father was immediately suspicious.

‘Well, she's got to be provided for, hasn't she? Earn her keep.'

‘So what are you going to do?' But Brad knew exactly what Gilbert Johnson was going to do.

‘I'm going to get her into show business. Into Hollywood.'

‘As the wolf girl?'

‘I thought wolverine sounded better. Got more of a ring to it. And if I can get her into the movies …'

‘You'll make a lot of money.'

‘She's got to have a future and as I'm her Guardian –'

‘You don't mean Hollywood, do you?' snapped Geoff. ‘You mean Europe – the only place where you can get a permit for your freaks.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘That's where you make your money, isn't it?' his father sneered. ‘Out of freaks – and now you've got another one. Wait till I spread that about.'

‘The unit director assured me that there would be maximum security,' protested Johnson.

‘
He
hasn't talked to me,' asserted Geoff. ‘But you have.
You've
talked to me. The rest is intelligent guesswork on my part, Mr Johnson. But it's true, isn't it?'

Gilbert Johnson began to walk away. ‘You don't know anything,' he said.

Brad hurriedly moved back into the surf and began to paddle out on his board. He didn't look back.

Geoff was very quiet that evening and didn't mention either Susan or her Guardian over dinner. Neither did Brad, not liking to tell him that he had deliberately overheard his conversation with Johnson. But as they sat there in uneasy silence, Brad could see that his father was clearly agitated and desperately wished he would confide in him again. Eventually they both went to bed, but later on he heard his father getting up and going out on to the beach. He often did this nowadays, and Brad could picture him walking along the growling surf, thinking. But thinking what?

In the morning, however, his father was back in his bed and sleeping more peacefully than he had for ages. Brad got his surfboard out from the garage and walked slowly down to the beach. It was a beautiful morning, still, without wind, and although the surf wasn't very high Brad was looking forward to getting into it. Most of the night he had thought about Susan and Gilbert Johnson and there was a sour, sick feeling in his head that he wanted to clear.

Brad was just about to plunge into the ocean when he saw something floating in the shallows, the waves nudging it to and fro. As he walked towards the object, he felt his mouth go dry and his whole body begin to tremble. Brad's limbs became wooden and he had the
nightmarish feeling of walking but never actually getting anywhere.

Forcing himself forward step by step, Brad eventually reached the corpse of Gilbert Johnson, now half washed up on the sand. The pale translucent blood was floating in the ocean around him.

Brad stared down at him for a long time, a very strange thought gradually filling his mind. Had Susan done this? Was she
more
than a wolf? Could she be one of the legendary werewolves who turned their skins inside out to conceal their true nature? Brad shook himself. Too much solitude must be getting to him. Then he saw something else in the water, just a little further up the beach.

The dark-haired girl was beautiful. She was also floating in the sea, and Brad could see the gash across her throat and guessed she'd been stabbed. Despite this, her darkly tanned skin, her long black hair and supple body made her look very much at peace. Her teeth were small and pointed and her eyes, which were still open, were dark green. Brad had never seen anyone so unusual or so flawlessly lovely.

‘They'll think she killed him, that she ripped his flesh like a wolf,' said Geoff, coming up behind him. Brad started, knowing his father was going to tell him things he didn't want to hear. He would rather say the words for him.

‘You did it, Dad, didn't you?'

‘She had to have her freedom.'

‘Couldn't you have got her back to them – to the wolves?' He didn't like to admit the strange thoughts he'd been having.

‘I was afraid that they wouldn't accept her,' his father was saying. ‘She wasn't really one of them. And she
could have become dangerous. So this was all I could do.'

Brad looked at the two corpses, gently rising and falling in the surf, and then up at his father again. Their eyes met, and although nothing was said, Brad knew intuitively that they had shared the same thought and his father had acted on it – and at the same time had prevented Johnson from exploiting another living creature again.

‘
Was he ever caught?' asked Kim
.

‘
Not to my knowledge,' said Aaron. ‘Geoff still works at the unit – and Brad still goes surfing every day during the vacation
.'

‘
It was wrong of him to kill
.'

‘
Sure,' said Aaron. ‘It was wrong. Now let's pack this in, shall we
?'

‘
Just a minute,' said Kim, the girl with the scar. ‘I
have
got a story to tell. I can share it with you now
.'

I'd always enjoyed helping out my Uncle Harry in his photographic studio, even though he only took wedding groups and studio portraits. He wasn't the most exciting photographer going, but I liked him and it was a good training – for I had determined to be a
very
exciting photographer, going all round the world, shooting the most amazing stuff. Portraits had always been his line, though, but after what happened I doubt if he ever risked taking one again.

Towards the end of the Christmas holidays, Uncle Harry had taken some shots of a little boy of six. His mother was stylishly dressed and obviously had plenty of money; she was also very fussy and wanted her son, William, to sit on a beautiful cushion she had brought with her. However beautiful that cushion was, Uncle Harry and I were both absolutely certain that her son would look extremely stupid sitting on it – rather like a modern-day Little Lord Fauntleroy – but his mother, Mrs Ralph, was insistent. ‘The cushion belonged to his grandmother,' she explained. ‘It's a family tradition that we're all photographed on it and I'm not parting with tradition now.'

So Mrs Ralph had had her way and William had looked a right little idiot, but she couldn't see that and it wasn't Uncle Harry's job to tell her so. ‘I only
try
to advise my clients,' he had once told me. ‘But vanity dictates that some of them, at least, don't take it – and then they're stuck with a print that makes them look terrible.'

When I arrived the next morning, however, Uncle Harry was clearly shaken.

‘What's up?' I asked.

‘It's hard to believe. The result's extraordinary. But there must be a fault in the equipment – in the image. What I don't see is how –'

‘What are you on about?' I said, ruthlessly cutting into his rambling explanation.

‘Look at this.' Uncle Harry pulled out a print and laid it on one of his big tables. ‘I don't get it.'

When I looked at it closely, neither did I. The print clearly showed Mrs Ralph's beautiful cushion, but William wasn't sitting on it. In his place was a small wolf cub.

‘There must be something wrong with the lens – or the camera,' I said, but I couldn't think what. How could a wolf have appeared instead of the child? It was impossible.

‘That's what I thought at once, said Uncle Harry. ‘But I've checked it out – and there's nothing wrong at all. It's the lens I bought when we went skiing in Bulgaria. Do you remember, Kirn?'

I did. I recalled the tiny photographic shop in the narrow streets of Plovdiv, Bulgaria's second city, which we had visited on a coach tour.

‘Bulgarian lenses don't substitute wolf cubs for boys,' he said firmly. ‘We'll have to ask Mrs Ralph in for another session.'

‘Are you going to explain what's happened?' I asked.

‘Not a chance. She'll think I'm crazy. I'm just going to say there was something wrong with the camera. In fact, I'll do it right away.'

Uncle Harry dialled Mrs Ralph's number. She answered at once, and he signalled me to listen in on the extension. Maybe he was expecting her to get abusive and wanted a witness, or just wanted some support, for he was still upset and mystified.

‘Mrs Ralph? It's Harry Adams Photography here. I'm afraid there's been a mistake.'