Wolf in Shadow-eARC (26 page)

She let herself in and followed the sound of a television to the flat lounge. Gary was slumped in a chair in a bathrobe. He tried to rise but sank back with a wince.

“What have you done to yourself?” Rhian asked.

“I fell down the stairs and bruised a rib—silly really,” Gary said.

“Have you seen anyone?” Rhian asked.

“Oh, sure, I got a taxi down to the health center for a check-up. Nothing to be done about it but to rest and take it easy for a bit.”

Rhian pushed aside his robe. Gary started to protest but subsided after she gave him a sharp look. He had a fine collection of blue and purple bruises on his chest.

“Where’s your kitchen?” she asked.

“Next left,” he replied.

The kitchen was a tiny corridor of a room with a cabinet down one side and a sink at the end. She filled the small electric kettle and hunted through the wall cupboards for tea bags and a couple of reasonably clean mugs. Another search revealed a packet of digestive biscuits. The top one or two were soft and stale when she prodded them, but those underneath were not too bad.

The kettle came to the boil and turned itself off with a loud click. She filled the mugs. She sniffed suspiciously at the carton of milk in the fridge, but it seemed okay. Rhian stirred and prodded the tea bags with a fork to speed up the brewing process. After three or four minutes she judged the color to be adequate and removed the bags. She put two sugar cubes in Gary’s, whether he wanted them or not, and carried the tea and biscuits into the lounge. Gary turned off his television with a remote and Rhian handed him a biscuit.

“I’m not hungry,” Gary said.

“Eat it and drink your tea,” Rhian said in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Right,” Gary said, doing as he was told.

“What did you have for lunch?” Rhian asked. “I didn’t notice much of the way in food in the fridge.”

“I thought I might have some toast later,” Gary said defensively.

Rhian sniffed to show what she thought of that. She took out her mobile and flicked through the menu.

“Hello, Frankie, are you busy?”

“Not especially, why?”

“Could you come over to the pub, stopping off at the shops to pick up some groceries for Gary? He’s hurt himself and can’t get out.”

“Hold on there, Rhian,” Gary said.

“What does he need?” Frankie asked.

“Everything, Frankie, he’s a man so he needs bloody everything,” Rhian replied, ringing off.

“This is embarrassing, Rhian,” Gary said. “You can’t just get your landlady to do my shopping.”

“Rubbish,” Rhian said. “She will enjoy fussing round after you.”

“Do you think so?” Gary asked.

“Sure of it,” Rhian replied. She looked Gary over. “Come on, Gary, give. What really happened?”

“I told you, I fell down the stairs.” He avoided her eyes.

“My father used to come home drunk and give my mother a good beating. I’ve seen bruises like that before. You don’t get fist marks from falling down stairs.”

“Okay, I was mugged. They didn’t get much and I wouldn’t recognize them again, so let it drop.”

“Mugged, right, Gary, do you think I’m stupid? No, don’t answer that,” Rhian said.

He gave her a wan smile. “No, I’ve never thought you stupid. A little naive sometimes, but nothing life will not cure. Okay, Charlie Parkes sent a couple of his boys round to make a point. Your, ah, friend, Max . . .”

He stopped and looked at her curiously, silently inviting her to clarify her relationship with the man.

“Go on,” Rhian said.

“Max pissed him off by beating up his boys. It’s a matter of face, you see. Charlie can’t have people thinking that he can’t run his own manor, or they would start taking liberties. He accepted I had nothing to do with it or I’d be in hospital or worse, but an example still had to be made, and as Max wasn’t available . . .”

Gary shrugged, which caused him to wince again.

“I get the picture,” Rhian said.

She was angry, blazingly angry. Parkes and Max could play boys’ games with each other all they liked, but how dare they involve her boss. Gary was a decent bloke who did not deserve this. Something would have to be done, she told herself.

“You might warn your friend Max to make himself scarce for a while,” Gary said.

“Max can look after himself,” Rhian said, tight lipped.

“Yeah, well, I saw that he is pretty handy with his fists, but Parkes’ boys will probably be tooled up next time they go looking for him.

“What?”

“Tooled up, you know, with shooters.”

“They had a go last night,” Rhian said. “Someone did a drive-by at Max and me after we left the pub. He took a bullet.”

“Bloody hell,” Gary said. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, sure, just a minor wound, it won’t bother him much.”

“Right,” Gary said, looking puzzled.

“Max was, ah, tooled up himself, so he shot up their car. It was dark, but he says he got the gunman.”

“Oh, dear God,” Gary said, putting his head in his hands.

At that point there was a knock at the door. Rhian let in Frankie. She arrived like Christ come to cleanse the temple, except that Christ probably didn’t carry Asda shopping bags.

“That was quick,” Rhian said.

“I was out in Mildred so I came right over,” Frankie said.

“Mildred?” asked Gary.

“My Morris Minor.”

“Good Lord, does it still run?”

“Most of the time,” Frankie replied.

“Where are you parked?” Gary asked.

“Right outside,” Frankie said.

“You ought to move her. This is a double yellow no-parking zone.”

“No problem, I have a disabled parking badge,” Frankie said with a grin.

“That’s all very well, but Charlie Parkes has the clamping concession in this borough. The sort of goons he employs would clamp an invalid carriage with the invalid still in it.”

“They won’t touch Mildred,” Frankie said, confidently.

Gary still looked doubtful, but Rhian suspected that Frankie had put some sort of aversion spell on the Morris.

“I’ve fresh bread, milk and butter, some cold meats, cheese, mincemeat, pasta, and fruit. I also brought a four-pack of Guinness to build up your strength,” Frankie said.

“That’s very kind, but we do have rather a lot of stout downstairs,” Gary said with a smile.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you would,” Frankie said vaguely.

“It being a pub,” Rhian added, helpfully.

She showed Frankie the kitchen. After the groceries were safely stowed, Frankie cooked pasta while Rhian updated her on the problem. They left Gary in the lounge watching a repeat of a 1970s sitcom. The plot involved a market gardener whose tomatoes would not ripen and the allegedly hilarious attempts by him and his “kooky” friends to rectify the problem and get them to market. Gary was fast asleep when they brought in lunch. There was nothing like a 70s sitcom to help you drift off.

“Up you get,” Rhian said, assisting Gary to the table.

“You are stronger than you look,” Gary said.

“So I’m told,” Rhian replied.

While Frankie clucked around Gary, Rhian keyed a contact on her mobile. It rang five times before a digitally recorded voice said. “I’m busy, leave a message after the tone.”

“I don’t care how bloody busy you are, sunshine. I want you round at the Black Swan bloody quick, like now.”

She hung up.

“He won’t be able to come until after dark,” Frankie said.

“Why, is he a vampire or something?” Gary asked, with a chuckle.

The food, or maybe having two women running around after him, had done wonders for his mood.

“Or something,” Frankie replied.

He looked at Frankie with a smile, which faded when Frankie failed to return it.

“Well, you’ve seen him in action,” she said to Gary.

“You shouldn’t involve him,” Rhian said.

“He’s already involved,” Frankie said. “He’s met you, and me, and Max. The way things are going, all of East London’s going to be involved.”

“Involved in what?” Gary asked.

“Max is a daemon,” Frankie said, conversationally. “Think of him as a vampire if it helps, but he’s not really. Although he does drink human blood.”

“This is a wind up, right?” Gary asked, uncertainly. “You’re yanking my chain.”

“You’ve seen Max,” Frankie said. “How would you describe him?”

“Very fast, very strong, but . . .” Gary’s voice trailed off.

“And he shrugs off bullet wounds,” Rhian added.

“I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole,” Gary said. He looked at the women as if they were mad. “So what are you? The two witches, or have you left a mate back at home to watch the cauldron?”

“Ha, bloody ha,” Rhian replied. “Of course I’m not a witch. Frankie is the witch.”

She paused and ran a hand through her hair. “Frankie’s right. What you don’t know won’t protect you but ignorance could kill. I involved you the moment I took a job here. The connection with Max, or something like him, was inevitable. I’m so very sorry, Gary, that I didn’t think things through.”

“Look,” Gary said. “I am sure you nice ladies are quite sincere about all this Wicca stuff, but I’m Church of England myself. Well, I would be if I ever went to church. Max may well be a scary guy, but East London has always been full of scary guys. My grandfather met the Krays once, and let me tell you, they were bloody terrifying. They made the Charlie Parkeses of this world look like Mormon missionaries.”

“I’m really sorry, Gary, but I have to convince you for your own good,” Rhian said.

“Stop! Think about this, Rhian,” Frankie said, warningly.

“He’s my responsibility so it’s my problem,” Rhian said, sadly.

She was aware that what she was about to do would change her relationship with Gary forever. Perhaps destroy it altogether, but she had to do what she had to do. Rhian reached inside of herself and summoned her alter ego, the wolf.

The world spun and morphed around her. It was so easy to change after Frankie’s magic. This must be what Boudica experienced. The world settled down, monochrome and flat but alive with three-dimensional scents and sounds. She heard Sheila rattle some glasses downstairs. When a pigeon on a ledge outside the building cooed, she heard it. She smelt it.

Gary froze.

The wolf stalked around the room. It knew Frankie as one of Rhian’s pack and it accepted Gary as harmless by feeding off Rhian’s emotional responses. After two circuits, the wolf was bored so she sat down and scratched an ear. She offered no resistance when Rhian pushed her down and was Rhian again.

There was a long silence.

“So you’re not a witch, you’re a werewolf,” Gary finally said.

He was remarkably calm, all things considered.

“She’s not really a werewolf, but . . .” Frankie said.

“I can think of her as one if it helps,” Gary finished the sentence for her.

He put his head in his hands. “This is a dream, right. My barmaid is a werewolf, her landlady is a witch, and one of my customers is a vampire. Anything else you want to tell me?”

Rhian shook her head.

“No, are you sure? Is this where you tell me that David Icke is the son of God and the world is run by shape-shifting alien lizards from Draco? Are Peter Pan, Tinkerbell and Wendy really living in a meaningful
ménage à trois
in Neverland? Does every rainbow have a pot of gold at the end? Can I expect Lord Lucan to pop in for a quick one on Sherga later or maybe H.P. bloody Lovecraft to ride Great Cthulhu down my bleedin’ chimney?”

His voice had risen to a near shriek.

“Be quiet,” Frankie said, cracking the words like a whip. “You’re frightening the girl.”

“Sorry, Rhian,” Gary said.

He paused. “What am I doing apologizing to a werewolf for frightening her?” he said, wonderingly.

“I’m not a werewolf,” Rhian said, somewhat plaintively. “I just look like one.”

“If it quacks like a duck,” Gary said. He held up a hand to placate Frankie.

“I’m only joking. You must admit, this is a lot to take in. I trundle happily through life with nothing but Head Office, Charlie Parkes and the obergruppenführers from Customs and Exercise to worry about, and suddenly I am lost in a horror story.”

“Hmm,” Frankie said. “There is also the problem that someone is opening gates to the Otherworld, letting in elves.”

“Elves don’t sound so bad,” Gary said.

“These are sorcerous psychopathic elves that feed on human pain and death.”

“Oh, right,” Gary said. “I suppose they would be.”

The Jaguar had “a do not attempt to drive this car” notice stuck under a windscreen wiper when Jameson and Karla returned to pick it up. Further investigation revealed a large yellow metal plate clamped to the offside front wheel.

Two large beefy men leaned against the front of the white van parked behind. One, hiding behind large black wrap-around sunglasses, had his arms crossed. The other sucked on a fag, his open sleeveless leather jacket displaying his chest hair and arm tattoos to full advantage.

Jameson gestured at the wheel clamp. “I suppose this is something to do with you?”

“You’re illegally parked,” said black sunglasses.

The other just sneered, quite a decent little trick that he managed without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. There was, Jameson reflected, always one that talks and one that sneers. He wondered if they were recruited in pairs because they possessed those skills or whether such job specialization was the product of a long training course. He was reminded of the old KGB street thugs who went around in threes: one who could read, one who could write, and one who kept an eye on the intellectuals.

“Didn’t you see the police card on the top of the dashboard?”

“The motor don’t look like no jam sandwich,” black sunglasses said. “Where’s your duke box?”

British police cars were no longer white with an orange stripe down the side, but “jam sandwich” was soaked into London English. Jameson fished out his special branch warrant card and stuck it in front of the sunglasses.

“Well you know now, so get the bloody thing off.”

“Can’t do that, squire,” black sunglasses said, arms still crossed. His mate practiced another sneer.