Wild (7 page)

“You, really. I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve not been well since that night.”

She flushed, not sure why the words embarrassed her so much. “Yeah, I’ve been sick,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

A strange light filled his eyes. “It is, actually,” he said. “I bet you’re feeling better now though, aren’t you? Better than you’ve felt for ages.”

She was about to fire off a tart reply when it occurred to her he was right. Given that just a few days ago she’d been bleeding to death at the roadside – probably – she felt great. Okay, there were the constant hunger pangs and violent nightmares, but physically she felt great. Strong. It wasn’t just the pills she’d just taken, either. And, from the look on Nick’s face – part hope, part trepidation, he knew that.

“What do you want, Nick?” she asked again when no clever reply sprang to her tongue. “What’s all this about?”

His bright eyes were deadly serious. “I want to help you.”

“Oh.” She laughed. “What are you pushing? Rehab? Jesus? You people –”

“Lizzie.” He leaned across the table again, catching her by the wrists. “Things are changing for you now. Everything’s changing.”

She struggled to free herself and failed. “Changing? What the hell are you talking about? Let me go.”

Nick kept a firm hold on her. “Maybe you don’t know yet.” He leaned in quickly, his face kissing-close to hers for a split second before he backed off again. “But it’s all different now.”

An electric current seemed to thrum in the air between them, charging Nick’s words with a dark meaning. Fear wormed through her.

He glanced around and she followed his gaze automatically, seeing nothing but pool players and footie fans. Then he let her go and pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I’m playing a gig at the Barfly on Saturday, yeah?” He scrawled something on the paper and pressed it into her hand, his fingers warm and strong. “Come and see me there and we’ll talk properly. It’s got to be then, though. Before Sunday, okay?”

“You’re joking,” she said, glancing at the paper. “You can’t just waltz up –” she began, looking back up. Her eyes widened in surprise. Nick was gone.

eight

I
T WAS SOME
kind of joke. Or a scam. Maybe he was with one of those stupid church groups that went around preaching that you went to hell if you didn’t accept Jesus. Or he was canvassing for some rehab programme, like Doctor Bloody Donahue. But no, he had too many good drugs on him for that…

Lizzie ran a dozen possibilities through her head as she unlocked the front door. She hadn’t entirely dismissed the idea that he was just a random crazy.
Things are changing.
What kind of talk was that? Except he had seemed so serious, so sure. Those pale blue eyes, so solemn, seeing right down to her bones, her soul, beyond.

She shivered, suppressing an ominous whisper of trepidation. She remembered the dreams that had tormented her since the night with the wolf, the visions of running, being hunted.

Slumping down on the sofa, she pulled the scrap of paper from her back pocket. Nick had written his name, his band, and the time of his gig. Good Thinking Batman, eight-thirty at the Barfly.

You’re changing.

Was she? Was that what she felt? A change, starting deep down in her very bone marrow, radiating outwards, altering her in some alchemical fashion she could neither explain nor stop.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, wiping sweat away. I’m a drug addict, she reminded herself. Okay, so not really. Not as bad as a lot of people. It had only been a year. And she was quitting, but everyone knew the facts: drugs fuck you up. They fuck your brain up. This could all be the result of a year of drug abuse, nothing more. Nick was probably a hallucination, never really there at all. A fever dream.

Maybe she needed to talk to a professional.

****

Thrashing in her bedsheets, Lizzie awoke, gasping for air. Beside her, Harris rolled over and grunted, “shut up,” before falling asleep again. She sat up, pressing her hands to her sweaty cheeks. These dreams, these fucking dreams. Always wolves and blood, over and over. And no drugs left to keep them at bay. Harris had finished up the last of the weed while she was out at the King’s Head. She glanced at the bedside clock. Two-thirty a.m. She ought to try to go back to sleep for a few hours.

Her stomach growled, her head throbbed, and she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She slid from the bed, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, and headed for the kitchen to brew some coffee. Normally she hated the stuff, but right now she craved the bitter, earthy taste.

She tripped over her discarded jeans on her way out of the bedroom and swore softly. She picked them up and tossed them into the corner to land on the pile of clothes building up there. Something fluttered from the pocket as she did so; Nick Doyle’s note. She retrieved it and left the bedroom.

She played with the piece of paper as she waited for the coffee to brew, folding and unfolding it until it was crumpled and dog-eared.

She glanced at the calendar hanging over the microwave. A busty blonde draped over a motorcycle stared back at her, eyes glassy and vacant. A Christmas present from Vic. So thoughtful. Frowning at the living doll on the calendar, she ran her finger down the column of dates, looking for Sunday. Maybe it was some religious holiday and Nick had to go meditate on a mountaintop or something.

There was nothing special she could see about this Sunday except it was a full moon. She leaned back against the counter, that ominous trickle of apprehension creeping over her again.

Full moons. Wolves.
You’re changing.

No. That was insane. She wasn’t going to think that. She wasn’t even going to contemplate that. She was an intelligent, educated woman. And she hated horror films. All those stupid cheerleaders getting carved up by psychos in clown masks … that was the province of school kids, not intelligent people. And she was intelligent.

Drugs, she told herself once more. Drugs fuck you up. This is probably all down to weed and meth. Crystal meth causes mental problems, doesn’t it? Didn’t Donahue say it could cause psychosis or something? And everyone knew weed made you paranoid. That was just a fact, hard science.

God, she needed a line.

The coffee maker beeped, making her jump. She pressed her palm to her leaping heart and poured herself a cup of coffee. The minute the hot liquid touched her tongue, she wretched, choking on the taste. She dumped the coffee down the sink and rummaged through the cupboards for something to take away the taste. She found a couple of slightly stale cherry Pop Tarts and dragged herself to the lounge. Curling up on the sofa, she switched the TV on, channel surfing until she found a black and white cowboy movie. She ate her Pop Tarts and let the sounds of gunfire and horses wash over her until she drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

Harris roused her some hours later by shaking her unceremoniously awake. “Move over, babe,” he grunted.

She rubbed her eyes and curled up to make room for him on the sofa. “What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty. Crank o’ clock.” He had his mobile phone in hand and was flicking through the messages. “Vic’s coming over with some stuff.”

Lizzie’s stomach turned over. “Why does he have to come here?” she muttered into her cushion. She hated Vic, only put up with him coming over because he brought drugs.

If Harris heard he ignored her. “You been sleeping here all night?”

“I had a nightmare. I just …” She sat up, trailing off. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Flashbacks to your adventure in the church?” he asked, a touch of sympathy in his voice that surprised her. “This has really messed you up, hasn’t it?”

Hell yeah. She shrugged and rose, stretching aching limbs. “I’m going for a shower. What time’s Vic getting here?”

“About an hour.” Harris began flicking through TV channels, his sympathy all used up.

Lizzie resolved to be out of the house before that.

****

Possessed with an urgent need to escape, Lizzie threw on a pair of sweatpants and a worn Buzzcocks t-shirt and drove to Whitley Gardens, deciding a good jog was what she needed. It had been a year or so since she’d done any proper exercise – she’d given it up along with her degree - and the rocky park was a good place to start over. Large enough that it was worth jogging around, but small enough that she wouldn’t have to push herself.

A light drizzle kept most people away from the park, apart from a few kids skiving off school. Lizzie balanced against the metal fence ringing the park and stretched her calves, surprised to realise she was enjoying herself. It felt good to be outside, away from Harris and the ever-present shadow of drugs. Her wolf dreams seemed distant, almost laughable in the light of day. Fuck acid, seriously. She was staying away from that one in the future.

Of course, she was staying away from everything, because she was going to quit, wasn’t she? Right.

She began moving, setting an easy pace and counting each step in her head as she went. The rainfall grew heavier, splattering off her hair and dripping off her eyelashes. The sudden downpour quickly cleared the park of the few other people there, but Lizzie couldn’t stop yet, needed to run off all the confusion and frustration. She quickened her pace, ignoring a slight twinge in her calf muscles. Cold rain sluiced over her, spurring her on. Her trainers churned the grass underfoot to mud as she ran.

Lightning cracked across the sky, flooding the air with the clean tang of ozone. Thunder followed, booming like the heavens were splitting open. She jumped at the sound, a squeak of surprise escaping her dry lips as she slipped on the path. She landed on her arse, winded and wincing.

Swearing, she struggled back to her feet and decided to give up. She turned to head to the gates.

A blur of black raced towards her.

Lizzie screamed and fell over again as the creature rushed her. A fleeting impression – burning eyes, ivory fangs, hot breath - branded across her mind. She raised her hands, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the pain.

It never came. Gasping for breath, she rolled onto her stomach in time to see the wolf land a few feet away from her, body low to the ground, eyes narrowed. Rain washed over the coal-black fur, slicking it against the creature’s lean frame until it looked like animal was coated in tar.

“Wolf,” she rasped, remembering staring up at this same creature not two weeks ago. A hysterical laugh bubbled up inside her. It was the same one, the one who bit her. She could tell by it’s mangy fur and gaunt frame.

The wolf raised its lips soundlessly, red tongue lolling. Not threatening, just watching, just … waiting.

For a few seconds they stayed like that, the wolf’s gaze burning into her. Then lightning flashed again and thunder broke across the sky, breaking the spell. The wolf rose and raced past her, heading for the thick line of trees at the other end of the park. For a minute, Lizzie couldn’t move. Fear, anger, confusion and panic wrestled inside her, freezing her where she lay on the path.

The rain slowed, the storm’s brief fury spent, and she could move again.

****

She drove home and sat in the car outside the house, listening to the radio. She didn’t want to go inside yet. Vic would still be there, him and Harris cutting lines and high-fiving each other on how much they could snort in one go.

But where else did she have to go?

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, watching the first brilliant rays of afternoon sun penetrate the clearing storm clouds. The wolf in the park, Nick Doyle’s words, they swam round her head in an endless loop as she looked for something that would make sense of it all.

Her mind flickered back to Nick. Should she try to track him down? No, she dismissed the thought immediately. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted, he couldn’t help her. She needed real help, proper help. She glanced at the clock in the dashboard. Almost three o’ clock. Where did the time go?

An edgy, itchy sensation settled over her bones as she sat there, akin to claustrophobia. Her skin felt too tight, as if her skeleton had expanded within her, trying to burst free. Her head burnt and throbbed and a deep, gnawing sense of want crawled in her stomach.

Maybe Vic had brought some ketamine over. A good k-hole would be just the thing right now.

Bowing to the inevitable, she locked the Mazda up and headed inside.

nine

H
ER HANDS WERE
shaking so hard she could barely get the key in the lock. A mixture of cold and craving pulsed through her. She needed a shower and a fix, not necessarily in that order.

Harris and Vic were in the living room, bent over the coffee table. She could feel the buzz vibrating off the pair of them as Vic cut the lines of snowy powder. Harris twitched and grinned, rubbing his hands together. His grin faded a little when he saw Lizzie. “Hey babe, you okay? You look like shit.”

She gritted her teeth. Why couldn’t he have OD’d instead of Hannah? She wouldn’t have missed him. “I fell over in the park,” she said brusquely.