Wild (11 page)

twelve

L
IZZIE AWOKE PIECE
by piece, her body coming back to life after sleeping the sleep of the dead. She was stiff and sore, head fuzzy. There was a strange taste in her mouth, an odd, musty smell clinging to her nostrils.

She opened her eyes to find herself curled up in her bedroom, under the window. Morning sunlight poured over her like honey, warm and soothing. She rubbed her sleep-crusted eyes and tried to figure out why she was on the floor. What happened last night? She felt like she’d been on the mother of all benders, but she was sure she hadn’t taken anything.

“Harris?” she called out, then remembered that she’d decided to leave him. Had she kicked him out? She sat up, running her fingers through her knotted hair. Her wild curls felt tacky, like drink or vomit had dried in them. Wouldn’t be the first time … except that little niggling voice told her she hadn’t drunk anything last night either.

She sat up and her gaze fastened onto the bed. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the shredded sheets. Stuffing from the pillows dusted the surface of the torn material. “What …” She recalled once cutting up some of Harris’s shirts after a particularly nasty fight. Had she … Had they …

Propping herself up on her fists, she crawled across the carpet to touch the bedsheets. The rips were jagged and rough, lacking the neat precision of scissor blades. This was more like claws, dragged through the cotton at random to leave holes gaping like open wounds.

She inhaled sharply and gagged at the strange odour lingering in the room. Musky, raw, like bad meat … She covered her mouth with her hand and noticed the rusty red streaks on her skin.

Shaking now, she raised her hand, staring at it with teary eyes. Blood. It had to be blood. Under her fingernails, across her knuckles, it could only be blood. Oh God, had Harris beaten her that badly?

No. No, that didn’t fit. The foggy space in her memory cleared a little, filling with shouting and hitting, but nothing that would explain the blood. She touched her hair again, dreading the thought that it was blood that had dried in her curls. Knowing it was true.

What had happened?

What had she done?

She lurched to her feet, screaming Harris’s name. She flung open the bedroom door, stumbled down into the living room and her screams stopped, cut off like the slamming of a coffin lid. The sight before her stole her voice.

She fell to her knees, hands pressed to the floor. Blood on the freshly vacuumed carpet, on the freshly washed cushions, filling the room with a charnel house scent, bad meat, dead meat, Harris …

Harris was sprawled on his back in the centre of the room. At first she couldn’t focus on him properly, couldn’t see exactly what had been done. And then it all sharpened into crystal clarity and she saw the shredded mess of his chest, the clots of gore on his face. Saw his mouth, frozen open in a silent scream. Glassy eyes, staring upwards. Hands curved into claws, as if he’d tried to fight his attacker off.

Lizzie threw up. The sight, the smell, the terrible realisation that he was dead – murdered – it all hit her like a lightning strike. He was dead. He’d been murdered.

What happened?

What had she done?

Panic gripped her like a vice, squeezing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t take her eyes off Harris, as much as she desperately wanted to. Why was he dead and she still alive? Did she do this?

“No,” she gasped, digging her fingers into her hair, into her scalp. “No, no, no. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

She forced herself to her feet. Police, she had to call the police. They’d figure it out, that was what they did, wasn’t it? Solved crimes, caught the bad guy. Because there had to be bad guy, she couldn’t have done this. She’d remember. She’d know.

She was halfway to the phone when she realised she’d have to step over the body to get to it. The thought froze her for a second. She stood over Harris and that feeling of standing at a precipice returned, filling her with vertigo. She wasn’t on the edge of cliff this time though; she was on the edge of an abyss. She sucked a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and the scent of his flesh filled her nose.

For a horrible second, it smelt good. Her stomach churned and she couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nausea.

Sobbing, she closed her eyes and stepped over him. She grabbed the phone and scuttled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind herself. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold onto the phone, but eventually she punched in the number. A bored woman answered, asking her in clipped tones which emergency service she required.

Lizzie tried to speak but nothing came out. Her throat felt thick, full of blood and vomit. She choked back a sob and slammed the phone down. She couldn’t call the police. Couldn’t go to prison. Oh God, oh God, what was she going to do?

Nick. She could call Nick. He’d help, he’d know what to do, he had to.

She dialled his number, squeezing the phone so hard she thought it might crack. Eventually his voice mail clicked on, asking her to leave a message after the tone.

“It’s Lizzie,” she whispered. “My boyfriend’s dead.”

I think I killed him.

****

For an hour she sat staring at the body, rocking back and forth and chewing her nails. Why hadn’t she gone to see Nick yesterday like they’d agreed? She should have stuck to the plan and this would never have happened. She knew it was all true, knew it down deep, but she’d talked herself out of it. Like she’d talked herself out of her degree, her family, all the things that were good for her, and she talked herself into denial and drugs and Harris and … death.

And now she had nothing. No friends to turn to. All her old uni mates had drifted away from her, and the thought of going back to London now, with this, was sickening. Impossible.

Several times she picked up the phone to call the police, only to drop the receiver again. She couldn’t. The thought terrified her, made her want to be sick again. No, no, she would wait for Nick. Nick would help.

When the phone rang, she screamed, then slapped her hand over her mouth, sobbing. Nick’s number flashed across the screen and she let herself breathe again.

“Lizzie? What’s happened?” he demanded when she picked up.

“Harris is dead,” she whispered. “I killed him.”

Nick was silent for a long, horrible moment, then he laughed, a horrible, raspy cigarette-tainted laugh. “Well, good riddance to bad rubbish. Sounds like you could do with a drink.”

****

They met at the Pilgrim, a pub near the Anglican cathedral, and an old student haunt of hers. It was a dark place below street level, the walls painted with faded Beatles caricatures. Nick shoved Lizzie down in a booth at the back, well away from the crowd of students pouring over history text books and all-day breakfasts in the middle of the room. Despite the sick shock churning her stomach, the smell of fried bacon and mushrooms made Lizzie ravenously hungry.

“So what happened?” Nick asked. Their table was right next to the jukebox, and the sound of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band kept their conversation hidden from the rest of the pub. Keeping her voice low and as steady as she could, she told him about her fight with Harris, and the aftermath.

“I should have called the police,” she said, scratching her arms. “I’ve got to – I can’t just leave him there.”

“Yes you can,” Nick said. “The worst thing you can do is call the police, Lizzie.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “What the fuck are you on about? I can’t –”

He tilted his head at her. In the half-light of the dim bar, he looked sinister, predatory. “Do you know what happens to people killed by werewolves?” he asked softly.

“Of course I don’t!” she snapped. “Why would I? I’m the new kid, remember?”

His eyes flashed, grim humour lighting his face. “They come back, Lizzie. A werewolf’s victim comes back.”

thirteen

“
C
OMES BACK?” SHE
echoed stupidly. “What, like a zombie? A vampire? I can barely handle werewolves, Nick. Don’t dump this on me too.”

“I’m serious.” He pointed at her, almost an accusing gesture. “People killed by werewolves … I don’t know why or how, but they come back. You’ve heard of ghouls?”

“Only on Scooby Doo.” She laughed, a touch of madness in it. “Come on Nick, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m serious! You remember that woman outside the Barfly the other night? The homeless woman?”

Fucking ghoul.
“She wasn’t.”

“She was. City’s crawling with them – they just climb out of their graves and carry on. Like they don’t know they’re dead. Give it a couple of days and Harris will be out there with them, like nothing happened, probably bumming cigarettes like the rest of them. You call the police, it all gets … complicated.”

She rested her head in her hands. “This is already complicated,” she said, “I can’t deal with this. I’m sitting here with a werewolf talking about ghouls. I must be tripping.” She raked her nails down her cheeks. “Harris put me in a coma and none of this is real, he’s not dead, you’re not a werewolf …”

“Lizzie!” Nick grabbed her hands and shook her. “Calm down, for God’s sake. Look, I know all this is … a lot to take in.”

“No shit.”

“But it’s all true so you have to deal with it. Look, you believe me about werewolves, don’t you?” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, the gesture surprisingly tender.

She nodded mutely. “I believe that. I can’t not, now, after … all this.” She pressed her hands to her face again. “One of us is crazy,” she said. “I think it’s probably me.”

“Look, just calm down, alright? We need to worry about your old man and his mate.” Nick leaned across the table towards her, conspiratorial. “Ghouls rise fast. We need to be there when Harris wakes up, or someone else might find him.”

She imagined Vic coming round for a spliff or whatever, finding Harris there like that, knowing about the fight. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.

“You have to.” He was merciless, immoveable. “Come on, drink up and let’s get back to yours.”

She downed her double vodka and lemonade automatically, rising when Nick did. “What are we going to do with him?” she asked, a strange numbness settling over her. It was better just to follow him, she decided. She was a stranger in a strange land right now, and Nick knew better, Nick knew what to do.

“We’ll need to clean him up once he’s up and about again,” Nick said, like they were talking about an old man with Alzheimer’s or something. “It’ll take him an hour or so to regain all his, you know, faculties.” He ushered her out of the pub into the too-bright sunshine. “But once he’s properly awake, we can just leave him to it.”

Lizzie’s numbness slid away promptly at his blasé tone. “Leave him to it?” she echoed. “He’s dead!”

“Lizzie, trust me.” Nick dragged her towards his car, parked at the edge of the curb. “I’ve done this before, okay?”

“How many times?” Hysteria rose in Lizzie, threatening to undo the shredded calm she was barely hanging onto.

He avoided her eyes as he opened the passenger door for her. “Enough times to know what I’m doing.” He shut the door on her, leaving Lizzie to turn that around in her head. When he climbed into the driver’s seat, he gave her a reassuring smile, which turned into a carnivorous grin. “It’ll be fine. I know everything seems crazy right now, but stick with me and you’ll be fine. There’s lots of advantages to what we are, Lizzie.”

She tried to think of some and came up blank. But she held her tongue and closed her eyes as Nick sped back towards Wavertree and Harris.

****

Based on what Nick had said, Lizzie half-expected to get home and find Harris chewing on the neighbour’s brains or something. But nothing had changed when they got back. Harris still lay unmoving on the living room floor. The blood around him had dried to a tacky rust-brown and the room smelt like weirdly like kebabs. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t stand to see what she’d done, so she retreated to the kitchen. Seeking refuge in the basic task of making a cup of tea while Nick prowled the house, sniffing and sighing, making her deeply uneasy. As if she wasn’t uneasy enough.

“Stop that,” she snapped when he opened the fridge to sniff in there. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Sorry.” He pulled back, looking sheepish. “Just checking …”

“Checking for what?”

He pulled a tin from his jeans pocket and began rolling a joint. The musty aroma sent a pitiful wave of need through Lizzie, and she knew this would all be so much easier to deal with if she was stoned.

“Kurtadam.” Nick said it like the word should make sense. “You never know when the bastards are going to show up.”

“What’s a Kurtadam? Some other creature of the night or what?”

“Christ, no.” He ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. “I’ve really not told you anything, have I? I’m sorry. It’s all just happened so fast …” He lit the joint, took a deep drag and offered it to her. She was almost ashamed of how fast she grabbed it. Almost.