High Moor (5 page)

David crumpled to the floor and gasped for breath. Tears ran across his cheeks. “No. It was yesterday, I used them yesterday.”

Norman bent over, grabbed the boy and pulled him to his feet.

“Then where the fucking hell are they today?”

“Still there, I forgot them last night.”

Norman’s face turned red and he balled his fists so tight that his knuckles turned white. The fist lashed out again and connected with the boy’s stomach. David collapsed to the floor, gagging. His father kicked out and lifted him into the air. He crashed to the floor against the kitchen units.

“You did WHAT? With my best tools? If some pikey hasn’t stolen them, they’ll have rust all over them. You little-fucking-bastard,” he screamed, punctuating the final three words with savage kicks to David’s prone body.

He reached over, grabbed a fistful of David’s hair and pulled him to his feet again. “You get out there, and you bring them back before I fucking cripple you. GET OUT. NOW.”

He opened the back door and pushed David out into the night. David leaned against the wall and gasped for breath, tears of pain and rage flowing across his cheeks.

“Bastard,” he said to the night. The word unblocked a dam, deep inside. All the pain and humiliation that he had suffered in the course of his short life flowed up and out of him.

“You miserable, fucking bastard,” he screamed at the house. “I hope you die of cancer.” He kicked out at the passenger door of his father’s car and put a fresh dent in the beaten bodywork.

The porch light came on, and he heard the lock click open on the back door. Without a backward glance, David ran off into the night as the moon rose over the roof of the houses.

***

David reached the end of the street and stopped running. The moon shone from a cloudless sky, and the temperature had plummeted after the sun had gone down. David's denim jacket did little to keep him warm, and he wrapped his arms around himself. The movement made him wince as he brushed his bruised ribs.

I should run away. Just keep going and never go back. Not until I’m eighteen anyway. Then I’ll go back with a baseball bat and put that fucker in a wheelchair. Shove his good tools right up his big fat arse.

He smiled at the thought and played it over and over in his head. His hate kept him warm, even if he knew deep down that it was all a fantasy. If he wasn’t there to take the brunt of his father’s rage, then it would be taken out on Michael and Marie.

The full moon lit his path across the fields, towards the dark line of the woods on the horizon. Off in the darkness, a dog barked, and from the hedgerow that separated the fields an owl hooted as it searched the night for its prey.

David made it to the tree line. The path snaked off into the darkness, branching left towards the town centre, straight across to the new housing estate where the faintest glimmer of orange light could be seen through the trees, and right into the deep woods where it continued for two or three miles before reaching the river. Visions of strange men with bags of glue welded to their faces and their trousers around their ankles flashed through his mind. All his life he'd been taught that the woods were full of perverts, especially after dark. For a moment he considered turning back and telling his father that the tools were gone. Then he thought about the beating he would get if he returned empty-handed.

“Fuck it,” he said and headed off down the right-hand path, into the deep woods.

David found it difficult to judge time in the darkness as he stumbled along the path. It seemed like he'd been in the woods for hours, but he was sure no more than ten minutes had passed. Grasping brambles reached out from the undergrowth and snagged his trousers. Once or twice he fell, wincing in pain as he skinned his hands. The woods were silent. No sounds of shambling glue sniffers crashing through the undergrowth towards him. He started to relax.

He missed the first marker and had to backtrack when he reached the stepping stones over the stream. He made his way back along the track and checked each tree until he spotted the yellow plastic tag nailed to the dark shape of the pine.

He pushed his way through the undergrowth. Building their camp all the way out here seemed less and less like a good idea with every passing second. He reached the second marker, spotting it more by luck than judgement.

Not far to go. A few more minutes and I'll be at the tree house. I'll get the bastard’s tools, take the short cut back across the beck, and pray that the fat fuck passed out after dinner.

A howl echoed through the woods. The sound came from everywhere at once, resounding through the trees until it faded into silence. David felt warmth run down his leg and realised that he'd wet himself.

He stood in silence, breathing in short, sharp gasps, and listened to the sounds of the woods. He heard crashing in the undergrowth behind him. Something was heading in his direction. Fast. David sprinted towards the camp, pushing any thought of what might be behind him out of his mind.

The camp loomed up at him, its outline visible in silhouette against the full moon. The sounds of pursuit were closer now. He grasped the first plank of the makeshift ladder and climbed as if his life depended on it.

He reached the first platform and sighed with relief. His limbs trembled, and he grasped the thick trunk of the tree, holding onto it as if it were his mother. The crashing in the undergrowth stopped. David held his breath and peered over the edge of the platform.

Something made its way through the bracken towards the tree. Whatever it was, it was huge. At least the size of a full grown man, perhaps even bigger, although at this angle it was impossible to tell. David got a sense of mass and power from the shape beneath him. It wore no clothes, but seemed to be covered in something white. Fur?

The creature sniffed the air and turned its head upwards towards the terrified boy. It howled, and then David knew exactly what it was. Werewolf.

It circled the base of the tree, growling in frustration and then moved beyond David’s line of sight, under the platform. He heard ripping sounds, and despite his terror, he craned his head over the side, to look.

The monster was climbing the trunk of the tree. Claws like knives dug into the bark as it hauled itself up towards him. Its progress was slow, but it was relentless, unerring. David choked back a sob, and with shaking arms, began the climb to the second platform, only too aware that he was only gaining a temporary respite.

David reached the second platform, almost forty feet from the forest floor, just as the beast reached the first. It raised its head and howled once more at the boy.

“Fuck off!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Fuck off and bother someone else.”

The creature snarled and continued climbing the tree towards the sobbing boy nestled high in its branches.

David broke down in tears. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be torn apart and eaten by this thing that was climbing towards him. He had nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to run.

Unless…

The beast was almost half way up the tree now. Its progress slowed as the trunk thinned. Its every move sent shudders up to David in his hiding place and made the tree sway. It would be on him in moments.

An idea formed through the black wall of terror in his mind. David removed his denim jacket, wrapped the arms around his hands and threw the coat over the rope zip-line. Without a second’s thought, he launched himself into the air. He swore he felt the wind from claws slash at empty air behind him. He hit the platform and rolled across it, feeling splinters from the wooden planks embed themselves in his knees. He looked back. The werewolf was still on the tree, just beneath the highest platform. It howled in fury.

“Let’s see you get over here, you flea-bitten, mangy twat.”

The monster snarled at him and stayed where it was for a moment. David felt a wave of relief crash over him. It would have to climb down, and then climb back up this tree to get him, at which point he could escape to the lower platform and then do it all again. He could keep this up all night, or until the monster got bored and went off in search of easier prey.

The werewolf bunched its muscles and launched itself into space. It covered the distance between the trees with ease and crashed down into the tree house, through the flimsy timber roof.

David whimpered and pushed himself back into the corner. He felt something stick into his back. His father's tool bag. His hands shook as he reached inside and produced a long, sharp chisel, which he held out before him like a sword.

The werewolf got to its feet, snarled at the terrified boy, then pounced.

26th March 1986. Durham Wildlife Liaison Office. 09:15.

Steven Wilkinson leaned forward in his chair and regarded the man sitting on the other side of the desk. “So? What do you think?”

“About what?”

Steven pushed the photographs across the table.

“What do you think? About these. The big cat and the attack on those sheep.”

The other man grinned, which accentuated the furrows in his face, and lit a cigarette.

“Well, which do you want to know about first?”

“What? Aren’t we talking about the same thing here?”

“Nope. One has now't to do with 'tother.”

Steven felt his patience evaporate. Matt Wilshire was a local hunter who carried out consultancy for the Police on occasions such as this. The old bugger was playing with him, and Steven was not in the mood.

“Come on, Matt. I've been chasing my tail for weeks on this case. Cut me some bloody slack and tell me about the cat.”

“What you have there is a female puma. She’s an adult, probably a good two meters in length, weighs maybe forty to forty-five pounds.”

“Any idea what it’s doing roaming the countryside south of Durham?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably released back in the 1960’s. Lots of folk kept things like that as pets before they passed the Dangerous Animals act. Then, when they had to turn them over to the authorities, some people just let them go into the wild.”

“Could one have survived in the area for nearly twenty years without anyone seeing it before?”

“Probably not. In the wild, a cat like that would probably only live ten, maybe twelve years. That cat looks like it’s a young adult, maybe five years old. Either someone turned it loose within the last couple of years, or there was a breeding pair around here not so long ago.”

“Can we track it? Capture it perhaps?”

“Hard to say with pumas. They have a huge territorial range. That cat could be thirty miles away from where that picture was taken by now, or it could be half a mile away. Depends if she’s got cubs.”

“Great. So, about the attack on the livestock. Are you telling me that a puma couldn’t kill all those sheep?”

Matt took another drag on his cigarette. “Oh, it could kill them alright. It could, but it didn’t. Not those sheep.”

“How can you tell?”

“Look at the way they've been torn up. Flesh ripped from the bones. Cats don’t feed that way. They rasp the meat off the bones with those sandpaper tongues of theirs. What did this was canine, but I suppose your lads in forensics will work that one out eventually. Like I say, two different things.”

“So, how many dogs would it take to do something like this?”

The old hunter laughed. “Depends on the dogs. A pack of Dobermans could do it a damn sight faster than a pack of Yorkshire terriers.”

Steven felt his temper flare, but managed to maintain his composure; just. “OK, then let me put it another way. What kind of dog do you think did this?”

Matt frowned. “Well, Sergeant, that’s where you’ve got me stumped. Whatever it was, it was a big bastard. Look at the bite marks. Its jaw must have been almost a foot across. Maybe some kind of cross breed. Great Dane crossed with a Bull Mastiff and a fucking Shetland pony? Whatever it is, it’s big and it’s got a nasty temperament. You wouldn’t want that bugger to start humping your leg, I can tell you that. And if it did, you'd fake a feckin orgasm.”

This wasn't what Steven wanted to hear. Inspector Franks was adamant the cat was the problem, but Matt was telling him otherwise. He wasn’t sure what was worse: big cats breeding in the area, or some monstrous dog being let loose on livestock. He pushed a pile of papers aside and picked up the telephone. Better to break the news to Franks sooner than later. He'd dialled the first digit when the door to the office burst open. Constable Phillips stood in the doorway, sweating and out of breath.

“Sarge, you both better come with me. They’ve found a body. Torn apart like those sheep last month.”

“What? Where?”

“In the woods, in High Moor. “ Constable Phillips looked down at his boots. “And, Sarge,…it’s a kid.”

***

26th March 1986. King's Close School, High Moor. 10.45.

The children marched into the assembly hall in single file and sat in rows on the hard wooden chairs in their respective classes; youngest at the front, oldest at the back.

An elderly television set stood at the front of the hall while Mr Jones, the third year teacher, fussed with a tangle of cables that led to the school video recorder.