Wild (4 page)

She kicked blindly, her heels connected with the wolf’s side. It yelped and scrambled away from her, giving her a second to leap to her feet and run. She sprinted back down the alley, back the way she’d come towards lights and people and safety. The wolf followed, claws clicking on the pavement as it gave chase.

Pain lanced through her as she ran; she pressed her hand to her ribs and felt blood seeping through her shirt. Bile rose in her throat and her lungs burned. Shit, she was out of shape. And she’d picked the worst time to find out.

“Help me!” she screamed as she tore past the fancy houses, the happy families inside. “Someone help me!” Someone had to hear her, someone had to do something. But the wind tore her cries away, and nobody came running out of their house to come to her rescue.

Her cheap heels slipped off her feet as she ran, sending her tumbling to the ground. She braced her palms on the pavement to break her fall, shocks of pain shooting up her arms. She whimpered, trying to kick her shoes off entirely so she could start moving again.

Behind her, the wolf slowed. Lizzie scrambled round, crouching with her fingertips pressed to the ground, like a sprinter about to take off. Every breath she took was agony, scraping her throat like broken glass. The thought of sprinting again made her dizzy. The wolf prowled up the alley towards her, red eyes narrowed… thoughtful?

“Please,” Lizzie whispered again, voice cracking. “Please don’t…”

She covered her head with her arms, quaking as the wolf crouched down in front of her, hot breath huffing against her cheek. It growled again, low and deep, and Lizzie burst into tears, pressing her hand to the wound on her side. The wolf bared its teeth, snapping at her. She screamed and batted at it, slapping her hand across its muzzle.

The wolf dodged and sank its teeth into her forearm. White-hot waves of pain rocked Lizzie as the wolf’s fangs pierced material and flesh, sinking in through muscle and vein.

I’m going to die, Lizzie thought, head spinning, bright lights flashing in front of her eyes. I’m going to die. And Harris will keep my car.

And then the wolf let her go with a bark, and she heard claws scrabbling on pavement as it moved away. She glanced up in time to see it disappear back into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as it came.

four

L
IZZIE WASN’T SURE
how she made her way home. She had vague memories of running down the alley, crying and gasping for breath, but those might have been memories from earlier in the night, before the wolf. Or they might have been fabrications created by her frantic, burnt-out brain.

But she did reach Smithdown Road, holding her aching ribs and rubbing her face, smearing blood and dirt across her cheeks. The wound to her side throbbed and stung, and a gibbering voice in her skull cried that she was dying, that her guts were spilling out, leaving a gruesome trail of viscera behind her.

Even breathing hurt. Every time she sucked in another mouthful of air, her body shrieked in pain. Blood trickled slowly down her face and neck. She’d be dead long before she made it home, she decided grimly. She’d pass out from blood loss and die at the side of the road like some pathetic hobo.

“I wish I’d dumped Harris first,” she muttered. How terrible, to die without fulfilling an ambition. And after the wanker stole her car, too.

She was still streets away from home when she collapsed, her legs numb and useless. She curled up in a ball, shivering and wracked with hot, feverish cramps of pain. Images flashed through her crashing mind: Hannah’s white face staring up at her, eyes dead, skin shrivelled. Great black wolves ripping her friend to shreds, tearing meat from bones with savage glee. Lizzie moaned and covered her eyes, trying to block out the pictures.

Breathing deeply, she forced herself back to her feet, only to see a car roll to a stop alongside her. Headlights blinded her for a second, and she tripped over her own feet, thumping onto the pavement again with a miserable sob. When she looked up, a semi-familiar face was staring down at her, blue eyes wide with concern under a heavy mop of black hair. As she stared, the face warped into Hannah’s, maggots crawling from empty eye sockets. Lizzie shrieked and lashed out, trying to shove the monster away. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” she wept, flailing feebly at the apparition.

The hands gripped her wrists firmly, stilling her. “Lizzie, stop! It’s me, Nick. Remember me?”

Lizzie sucked in a deep breath that burned her lungs. She closed her eyes, fighting away her terror. The voice wasn’t Hannah’s. Wasn’t even female. She opened her eyes and looked at Nick Doyle properly. It was the first time she’d seen him since Hannah OD’d, and for a hot second she wanted to punch him in the face. Then a wave of pain shook her, turning her stomach, and instead she just collapsed into his arms with a moan.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Nick said soothingly. “Everything’s fine now. Can you stand?”

Trembling, Lizzie forced herself to clamber to her feet. It took a gargantuan effort of will and, once on her feet, she swayed, leaning heavily on him for support. “I feel sick,” she said.

“You need a doctor,” Nick said. “Need to get those wounds cleaned and stitched.”

“Harris stole my car,” Lizzie mumbled. She was too exhausted to feel angry about it, but it seemed important to tell this stranger.

Nick helped her into his car. Her limbs felt itchy and fuzzy, refusing to move properly and she collapsed onto the back seat gratefully. He talked ceaselessly as she drove, but Lizzie barely understood a word of it. Her head buzzed and pulsed, the zipping flash of streetlights creating crazy dancing flashes before her eyes. She closed them to block out the lights as the car sped back towards Liverpool. The dancing lights faded, replaced by the malicious glow of red eyes in the darkness.

****

She came round to find herself blissfully free of pain. The smell of bleach and antiseptic told her she was in a hospital, as did the itchy bedsheets and the soft whir of machines. A drip was feeding a cloudy white liquid into her arm. Harris sat beside her, rubbing his nose and looking edgy. “Morning, babe,” he said with a too-wide smile. “You okay?”

“I feel better,” she said, shuffling herself carefully into an upright position. She felt bandages on her face and around her ribs, constricting and claustrophobic. She did feel better, she realised. More grounded, like she belonged in her body again.

“They gave you morphine. I tried to get a freebie for myself, but apparently hospitals don’t work that way.” He laughed, then cut himself off abruptly. “There’s been nurses in and out all day. I told them we needed a minute alone.” He rubbed his nose again and Lizzie wondered if he’d been doing coke. The idea sent a spasm of need through her. “What happened? The doctors said it was a dog or something.”

“Wolf,” she replied, touching her face gingerly. The skin beneath the thick bandage stung, but it was a world away from the agony she’d felt … last night? She glanced towards the window and saw sunlight streaming through the blinds.

His eyes brightened. “A wolf, really? Don’t suppose you got me a few pictures to send to Wolf Watch, did you?”

She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or taking the piss. Either way, her buried resentment resurfaced in a bitter surge. “I’m banged up in a hospital bed and all you can talk about is your stupid fucking website?”

“Well come on then,” he challenged. “What actually happened, Lizzie?”

“Nothing that would have happened if you hadn’t stolen my car!”

“You pushed me to it!” he snapped, leaping up and pacing the room. “If you weren’t being such a bitch -”

“You stole my car and abandoned me in the bloody rain without even a jacket!” Lizzie retorted. “And look what fucking happened! I end up in hospital on a fucking drip after some rabid monster nearly fucking ripped my guts out!”

“And how is that my fault?” he snapped. “If you hadn’t been a twat, I wouldn’t have left you!”

“You stole my car! I should call the police!” She thumped the mattress in frustration, wishing he’d get closer so she could thump him instead.

A young doctor, looking harassed and irate, stepped into the room. “Can I ask you to keep the noise down?” he asked curtly, eyes dark with displeasure. “We do have other patients here.”

Lizzie pounced on him. “I want to call the police. I want to report my car stolen –”

“No she doesn’t!” Harris yelled, slamming his fist down on the headboard. The entire bed shook with the force of it. Lizzie winced. “No you don’t, Lizzie, you’re being stupid.”

“Please, sir!” the doctor said. “Enough yelling.” He turned to Lizzie. “I’m Doctor Donahue,” he said. “I saw to you when you were brought in. How do you feel, Ms Creighton?”

“Fine,” Lizzie mumbled. “Those must have been some pretty strong painkillers you gave me.”

“Actually you were given a fairly low dose,” Donahue replied, crossing to her bedside and checking her pulse. “It can be dangerous to combine prescription drugs with recreational ones, so we had to be cautious.”

“Who told you she was using drugs?” Harris demanded, a hunted look on his face. “That’s bullshit. She doesn’t take drugs. Neither of us do.”

Donahue ignored him. “The lad who brought you in said you might have taken something,” he said to Lizzie. “You do know there’s an Admit clinic in town?”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she replied. Fucking Admit. Like she’d go to some poxy rehab clinic and sit there with a load of tossers crying into cheap coffee because they couldn’t get off the smack.

“She doesn’t need rehab,” Harris said, sitting down and putting an arm around her, hugging her against him. There was tension in his arms, telling her the hug was for the doctor’s benefit, not hers. He was still pissed at her. “I’ll take care of her, won’t I, Lizzie?”

“I suppose,” she muttered, not wanting to antagonise him by pulling away, even if she couldn’t stand him touching her just then. It was easier to give in for now. Later, they’d have a proper knock-down, drag-out fight, but not here in front of the doctor.

“And she’s not really calling the police, are you?” Harris asked. Not really a question though.

She shrugged. “I guess not.”

He squeezed her shoulder, silently telling her she was a good girl. Loathing for him fired through her, quick and hot. “And she’s okay, yeah, Doc? She can just come home and we can forget this ever happened?” Harris continued.

Doctor Donahue frowned, then nodded. “If that’s what Lizzie wants. I’m happy to discharge her this afternoon, provided she feels ready to go.”

“She will,” Harris assured him, grinning at Lizzie. “Won’t you, babe?”

“Yeah,” Lizzie said wearily. “Whatever.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, Mr Spears, I’d like a word alone with Ms Creighton,” Donahue said. Harris shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly reluctant to leave her with the doctor.

“Oh Harris, just piss off, will you?” Lizzie ordered. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

Harris flicked his hair from his eyes and slunk from the room with a scowl. Lizzie relaxed with a sigh, shoulders slumping. Donahue smiled at her and she wondered if he felt the change in atmosphere as keenly as she did.

“Quite a character,” he remarked dryly.

“I’m breaking up with him,” she said defensively. “Soon. Probably today, in fact.”

“Good for you. I just wanted to speak to you privately about Admit. It’s not so bad, you know. Hundreds of people every year quit drugs with their help. They won’t judge you, and they won’t condemn you.”

Lizzie slumped back against her pillows. “And I thought you were so nice.” Rehab was for addicts. She wasn’t addicted, not really. She didn’t
need
drugs. It was just that life was so much better with them.

“Please think about it, Lizzie. I can see by looking at you you’re on a slippery slope. You’re clearly underweight – did you know crystal meth users can develop anorexia? Not to mention psychosomatic disorders and depression.”

She looked away, fighting tears. “I’m not anorexic,” she muttered. It seemed important to make that clear.

Donahue continued ticking points off on his fingers. “You had all the signs last night of someone who’s regularly using crystal meth – dilated pupils, tremors, palpitations… Drug abuse kills countless young people every year. Do you want to be another statistic?”

“Not really.”

“Well, please do consider it,” he replied. “After last night, I’m sure you realise how dangerous drugs can be. As I said, I’m happy to discharge you if you feel ready to leave. Your wounds are ugly,” he smiled, “but mostly superficial. With proper rest and care, you should recover quickly enough. And to be honest, we need the bed.” He gave her a professional nod of the head, tempered with a warm grin, and left.

Harris was hovering in the hallway; she could see him through the window in the door. Probably eager to get home so they could carry on their argument. She felt her heart skip a few beats, pounding faster than usual against her battered ribs, and suddenly rehab didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

She settled back in the scratchy bedsheets, mind turning to Nick. Where had he got to? Where had he come from, come to that? Appearing out of the night to ride to rescue, then vanishing again like some comic book hero. Maybe he’d felt too guilty to stick around, after pretty much killing Hannah.