Wolfcurse
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1981-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Ray Tyler, an unhappy bank clerk and self-sufficiency freak, buys an old book from his local bookshop. However, after reading it, he finds that he is gradually turning into a violent beast driven solely by murder and in short a werewolf. His increasingly erratic behaviour earns him the sack from the bank, and three rapes and two murders later, he is on the run from the police.
Publisher: Black Hill Books

Wolfcurse - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1981 - 2011

Published by Black Hill Books, May 2011

ISBN : 978-1-907846-205

First Published by New English Library (NEL) June 1981.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

The End

Chapter ONE

The car park; a black half-acre, a springboard to the moods of the town. In the grey light of a winter's morning you hated every square inch because it represented the start of another day of drudgery and boring routine. In the evening you loved it because it was an escape route, albeit a temporary one. But you only gave it a passing thought, accepting it for what it was. It was not a place in which to linger, for a number of reasons.

Tyler made out the squat featureless shape of his old Viva just beyond the circle of light cast by the single street lamp in the centre of the walled parking area, quickened his step, then pulled up abruptly, a sense of apprehension flooding over him as he saw the youths. Two of them. No, three. The third was straightening up from behind the car, glancing in his direction. They were all staring, not a trace of guilt, no hint that they might make a run for it. Stark arrogance. One of them spat contemptuously and swore. Then they all laughed.

He stood watching them, his mouth suddenly dry, licking his lips, half ashamed of himself for being afraid. It was the sensible thing to do, to hold back, he told himself. No point in rushing in; it was three to one. Maybe in a minute they'd clear off, shouting abuse as they disappeared into the shadows.

But they held their ground. A game of waiting to see who was going to make the first move. And the onus was on Ray Tyler. His only other alternative was to walk away and leave them to break into his car.

‘That's my car,’ Tyler scarcely recognised his own voice, a harsh croak in which he failed to disguise the tremor of his own escalating fear.

‘You don't say!’ Mock surprise, a titter from the one in the background. ‘Maybe, but so what?’

They advanced a few steps until they were standing directly in the circle of murky yellow light. Some ten feet, maybe less, separated the stocky, conventionally dressed man from the gang of louts. That's what they were, layabouts, vandals. Tyler caught his breath. Maybe even muggers. It was stamped on their features beneath layers of acne, scars and grime: cruelty that earmarked bullies; the knowledge that there was safety in numbers and if somebody put the boot in it could have been anybody.

‘You were trying to break into my car.’ Tyler tried to sound angry, confident, unafraid.

‘Yeah, that's right. So what?’

So what? A catchphrase of the hooligan element. Slick, defiant

‘If you don't clear off I'll call the police.’

Loud guffaws, harsh uncultured tones that seemed to echo in the confines of the car park. Tyler glanced from one to the other, noted their jeans and black pseudo leather bikers' jackets. A kind of uniform that was a spin-off from the Hell's Angels era of the fifties and sixties. The lowest of the low. They got stuck on the bottom rung of the social ladder so they tried to shake everybody else down to their level. Class distinction that incorporated hatred and violence. It manifested itself in many other ways. Secondary picketing was one; a chance to strike a blow at those who had been more successful in life, a battle that was always lost before it was begun.

‘And what d'you think the fuckin' cops'll do? Lock us up?’

The tallest of the youths had elbowed his way into the foreground. He was right, of course, Tyler reflected grimly. The police couldn't do a lot. Their hands were tied. The good old-fashioned bobby would have gone straight in with his truncheon, regardless. Not nowadays. The legal system was loaded in favour of these yobs. Suspended sentences were no more than a mild warning.

Tyler was tense, his whole system trembling as though an electric circuit ran round it. At first the voltage had dropped; that was fear. Now the units were building up again, coursing through his veins and making them stand out rigidly. Anger! Sometimes it took him by surprise, took control before he could check it and then it was too late. It only happened when he was really riled. Like the time Henshaw, the manager at the bank where he was chief cashier, had reprimanded him sarcastically in front of the junior staff. Ray's fingers had closed over the handle of a convenient paperknife. It had come as a shock afterwards when he realised that he actually could have killed the other, plunged the blade into the manager's goitrous throat and ripped and hacked. A sudden summons to the telephone had saved Henshaw's life, there was no doubt about that. Then the killing urge had subsided. But Tyler hadn't forgotten it.

Now it was back again, only this time Ray Tyler was weaponless. Defenceless.

‘Take my advice,’ - the tremor was gone from his voice - ‘and piss off!’

The three glanced at one another, grinned. They weren't even going to have to make the first move; this silly sod was playing right into their hands. Another couple of steps forward, slow, menacing. There was no hurry. Such moments were to be savoured, had been rehearsed many times.

Tyler saw the iron bar in the hands of the tallest one and licked his lips again. It was the crowbar with which they had been trying to force the Viva's door and now they were going to use it for a different purpose: to bludgeon him to death!

Suddenly Tyler's fear was gone totally, swamped by a tidal wave of white rage, the ultimate in anger which swelled his veins and increased his heartbeat, a kind of alcoholic boost which slowed neither his thinking nor his reflexes. One more glance, poised on the balls of his feet, digesting his plan of action in a matter of seconds. The big fellow had to be taken first, not just because of his size but because he was armed. The other two might or might not remain for the rest of the action. It all depended upon the extent of their courage and how much they had had to drink. Having weighed up the opposition, Ray Tyler flung himself forward.

The youth with the iron bar had obviously not expected to he attacked; in his three years' experience of violence in the shadows the victim always cowered, threw up his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the blows to the skull. But Tyler was on him before he had a chance to raise his weapon.

The bank clerk's actions were all instinctive. At no time in his life had he received or even taken the slightest interest in unarmed combat. He had missed conscription by a matter of months, something for which he had been eternally grateful. Yet no member of the armed forces engaged in active service could have acted with greater speed or efficiency. No single movement was wasted. The downward left-hand karate chop broke the arm holding the length of iron simultaneously with Tyler's foot embedding itself in the other's groin. The pockmarked youth hit the ground, writhing, no breath left even to scream.

The second attacker hesitated, shocked, unable to believe what had happened, his defences wide open. Tyler saw the face, the loathsome disfigurements which were a blasphemy to mankind, and drove his bunched fist straight into it, every ounce of his weight behind the blow. Bone met bone, crunched, splintered.

The bank clerk scarcely felt the pain in his hand, saw the other stagger back, fingers clutching at the bloody pulp which now hid the scars, the scream spewing out a cascade of broken teeth which bounced on the hard surface like waste filings in a foundry.

Two down and one to go. The last of the hooligans was already fleeing but once again Ray Tyler was obeying his instincts, hurtling in pursuit, not once stopping to reason with himself. They had to pay for what they had done to his car, every one of them. Not only that, he wanted to hurt them all.

Not once did his out-of-condition body falter, the fast running strides effortless as though heavy-duty springs were embedded in the soles of his shoes. The rage inside him had escalated to a white heat, a build-up of everything that had happened so far. The first two had been lucky; now this fleeing vandal was going to feel the full force of his fury.

Tyler caught him somewhere in the shadows beyond the range of the light, gripping the fugitive by his jacket and plucking him out of the darkness, pulling him close so that there was no danger of a surprise body blow. His nostrils wrinkled at the stench of cheap beer and sweat; the sweat of terror!

‘Lay off! It was them others. I didn't touch your bleedin' car, mister. God, I wasn't goin' to …’

Ray Tyler was not interested in what the frightened youth had not been going to do. He dropped one hand, found the soft flesh which he was seeking inside the denims and squeezed with all the force he could muster. The other straightened up as though a bullet had embedded itself in his spine, arching his back, arms flailing. Tyler increased his pressure. A fleeting childhood memory came back to him; that summer when he had gone with his parents on a farm holiday. He'd found an egg in the hay barn, not realised how fragile it was, held it so tightly that the yolk had burst out of the shell and slimed all over his fingers. He had tossed the mess away in disgust, almost puking as he had endeavoured to wipe his hands clean on the hay bales.

That same feeling now, only without the revulsion. Squeezing until something burst, something wet soaking through the material on to his hand. The other was yelling, trying to tear himself away. Tyler pulled him closer, holding him with the hand that still squeezed and pulped relentlessly.

‘Interfere with my car, would you, you little bastard,’ the cashier hissed. ‘Now you're paying for it!’

It wasn't until it was all over that Ray Tyler realised exactly what he had done. He wasn't thinking clearly, he didn't need to; everything was just happening, his body taking over from his brain, obeying some mysterious commands.

He felt his teeth sink into something soft, biting and trying to tear, the other's screaming suddenly relegated to a hysterical series of gurgles. An iron-like taste in his mouth, warm treacly fluid. Then he had flung the injured youth from him, turning away in the same movement, striding back towards his car.

The other two were still on the ground where he had left them. Tyler heard the sound of sobbing, almost went across to them but his fury had abated somewhat, heartbeat and breathing slowing, reverting to normal. He licked his lips, tasted the iron on his palate, swallowed; swallowed for more. It was sweet to the taste. Only then did he realise what it was, what he had done.

Blood! Oh, Jesus Christ, I bit the sod's throat!

The lock fitting on the Viva was bent but it still functioned. Tyler found his bunch of keys, inserted the right one, and swung the door open. As he lowered himself into the seat he was aware that he was trembling. It was all coming back to him, a nightmare that had been obliterated from the mind during the process of waking and then gradually returned, more horrific as one dwelled on the details.

He engaged the gears and swung the car in a circle to head across towards the exit. The headlights picked out the three youths. The first two were on their knees, their blood-smeared faces grotesque masks of pain, mouthing curses, bloody bubbles forming on their lips and bursting. The big fellow's right arm hung limply and Ray Tyler knew without any doubt that it was broken.

The twin beams continued in an arc, centred on the last of the gang as Tyler braked, stared in disbelief. The youth was lying sprawled on the tarmac, left hand pressed across a jagged throat wound. Tyler's senses swam momentarily, breathed a sigh of profound relief as he saw that the jugular vein had been missed. The blood was not spouting like a fountain as he had feared; more of a steady ooze that saturated the open shirt front.

The cashier's gaze travelled downwards, saw that the jeans had been tugged down to knee-level, the other's hand pressed tightly into the crotch, screening from view whatever injuries lay there.

A sudden impulse on Tyler's part, one that frightened him even though he managed to check it. His foot was going back to the accelerator pedal, hands starting to straighten the steering wheel on a direct course … one that would have sent the vehicle hurtling at the wounded denim-clad figure. Oh, God!

The other seemed aware of that brief subconscious intention, tried to scramble away like an injured crab, still clutching at his wounds. Then Tyler was swinging away, the darkness rolling back and hiding the vanquished from his sight. ,

He was sweating badly by the time he had eased the Viva out into the lighted streets, trembling hands causing the car to veer towards the centre of the road a couple of times. The rush hour was over, only a few motorists and pedestrians making their belated homeward journey. A clock outside a jeweller's shop showed that it was 7.10. He had left the bank at seven o'clock; he remembered noticing the time, mentally cursing that stupid bitch of a new cashier for her cash discrepancy that had held everybody up.

Ten minutes! It was unbelievable that all that had happened in so short a space of time. Less, in fact. The car park was a couple of minutes' walk from the bank; allow another three minutes driving from his parking place to the main streets. Five minutes! It was incredible; it had seemed hours.

He drew the back of his hand across his damp forehead. He had not only routed and inflicted injuries on three tough yobs but he had actually enjoyed it … at the time, anyway. Now it was all rather frightening. Suppose they complained to the police? It wouldn't be difficult to trace the owner of the Viva … ‘causing grievous bodily harm … assault … behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace …’ it had certainly bloody well done that. ‘Bound over for two years … a six months' suspended sentence … fined £150, costs amounting to £75.’

Tyler could taste the blood again, a cloying vile taste that almost had him pulling the car into the kerb and getting out to vomit. Somehow he fought it off, carried on driving at a speed of under 20 mph. A policeman in a parked panda car watched him from across the road; there had been several complaints during the last few weeks of kerb-crawling. Then the Viva picked up speed and the constable decided not to follow: these cases were difficult to prove, anyway.

Ten minutes later Ray Tyler had turned off the ring road on to the estate, a maze of uniform roads, identical box-like houses on either side. Even here there was a strong class hatred. Those living in detached boxes looked down on those whose income relegated them to semi-detached boxes. That was a fact, Tyler knew, because he lived in one of the latter. Four walls, the interior sectioned off into three bedrooms, one living/dining room and a kitchen in which one had to struggle past the cooker and twin-tub washing machine in order to get outside to the tiny open-front planned garden. Two lawns; that was because a narrow flower border cut the expanse of grass in half. Otherwise the Tylers would have had one lawn the same as everybody else.

He drove straight up the short steep drive and into the garage, switched off engine and lights, and sat there staring into the darkness. Oh, God, it was awful; worse afterwards when you thought about it. Logically, it wasn't possible. A timid (Lillian was fond of using that word) bank clerk couldn't beat up three full-grown louts and, not satisfied with that, commit atrocities that would have brought a gleam to the eye of Hitler's Gestapo. But it had happened. He could still smell blood, taste it. He'd never get rid of it.

Suddenly the door leading from the passage which separated house and garage opened. A reasonably attractive woman with short dark hair stood framed in the light from the adjacent kitchen, an expression of puzzlement on her features.

‘Ray?’ She squinted, trying to adjust her vision to the darkness of the garage. ‘Ray, are you all right? Whatever's the matter, what are you sitting there for?’

Ray Tyler sighed and struggled to open the damaged car door. The catch was twisted and needed a wrench to free it.

‘Nothing much,’ he grunted. ‘Some kids were messing about with the car, trying to break into it. They've damaged the handle. I gave them a piece of my mind.’

‘Huh!’ She turned back towards the house leaving him to follow her. ‘More like a polite remonstration in your case. If I'd been there they'd have got a clip round the ear, all of them. That's the trouble with you, not forceful enough. Too timid.’

He stiffened and for one second he thought that that uncontrollable fury was returning. But it faded and he gave a sigh of relief. He'd have to take positive steps to control himself in future. The fluorescent lighting in the kitchen dazzled him, blinded him, made him suddenly aware how badly his head was throbbing.

‘Washing machine's been playing up again.’ Lillian was obviously in one of her complaining moods. ‘I rang the service department and they promised …’ The abruptness with which she broke off made him catch his breath. ‘Hey, what've you been up to? There's blood all down your chin and your collar's saturated with it … and just look at you. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge!’

He glanced sideways, avoiding her penetrating scrutiny, at the same time seeing his reflection in the mirror which hung above the kitchen unit. Her description of him was no exaggeration. Blood smeared his face, his suit was crumpled and muddy.

‘I … er … I’ He struggled to think up a plausible lie, then gave it up. He'd have to tell her the truth, not that there was much chance of her believing it. He scarcely believed it himself. ‘I had a run in with those kids I was telling you about. There was a bit of a scuffle … nothing much.’

‘A what!’

‘A fight.’ He swallowed, feeling more foolish than guilty now.

‘You … fighting! You won't even put the Waltons next door in their place when they get interfering and minding our business. You couldn't fight … you wouldn't know how. You're not fit enough.’

‘I am,’ Ray Tyler snapped. ‘And I sorted out three full-sized yobbos. One of them had an iron bar which he'd been trying to break into the car with. I broke his arm and … and I beat up the other two!’ He stared defiantly into her shocked face. ‘See this blood.’ He licked his forefinger and rubbed it around his chin. ‘There's no cut on me. Nothing. It's their blood.’

‘Good God!’ She reached for a packet of cigarettes on one of the shelves and lit one, inhaling deeply. ‘There's a saying that even a worm will turn. It really has in this case.’

His fists clenched and he felt a desire to crash one of them into her smirking face. Control yourself. He kicked the door shut and would have gone straight upstairs to change had his wife not been blocking his way.

‘I trust you've reported it to the police.’ Her dark eyes were watching him closely.

‘No ... no, I haven't.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because … because in my position I can't afford to get mixed up in brawls. The bank wouldn't like it. It's over and done with. They've been taught a lesson and there's no serious harm been done to the car so we'll leave it at that.’

‘You amaze me.’ She stood to one side so that he could pass through; it was his habit, his ‘obsession’ as she constantly reminded him, to insist upon changing out of his office suit into casual wear the moment he arrived home each evening. ‘Maybe you have got something in you after all.’

It was a relief to get out of his suit and to shut himself in the bathroom, a small white-tiled oblong enclosure which incorporated the WC. As an afterthought he turned the key, slowly and silently. He needed just five minutes to himself, a chance to draw breath, to prepare for the further interrogation which would doubtless accompany the Monday evening cold roast and instant mashed potatoes. Lillian would not, let this die for some time. Doubtless, during a future spell of less intensified enmity with the next-door neighbours, the Waltons would get to hear about it. Gossiping was Lillian's main weakness; none were spared, not even her husband.

As Ray Tyler washed, the water in the basin turning a faint pink, he reflected upon how Lillian used to be twenty years ago. He was not the only one who had undergone a change. He recalled their first date, how he had trembled with excitement for two days beforehand and made sure all his mates knew that he had dated up Lil Blackley. He grinned wryly to himself at the thought; even now he had a job to convince himself that Lil Tyler had once been Lil Blackley. Those had been carefree, loving, erotic days.

One of the main attractions with Lil was that she'd been around a bit, had a sort of ‘reputation’; Ray hadn't believed a lot of the rumours, still didn't, but they were exciting nevertheless. There was something super erotic, he decided, about having it off with a woman whom half the chaps in the locality were boasting about having laid. A sense of conquest. He'd had to work at it, though; Lillian didn't give it away easily. Then, after the initial seduction, three weeks to the day since their first date, they'd got so they couldn't leave it alone. Not content with having it in the cramped back seat of Ray's old Mini after the pubs had closed, they started finding a quiet spot somewhere early in the evening, going for a drink to recharge the batteries which drove their sex urge and then going back for a second session later.

Ray Tyler glanced down, saw the growing protrusion in the front of his trousers which these exciting nostalgic memories were responsible for, and almost gave way to the temptation to take a quick bath, enjoy himself; divorce himself from stark reality and really let his fantasies run riot. There wasn't time, though. Lillian would be banging on the bathroom door in a few minutes; Lillian as she was now. Scathing. Disappointed with him, with life. ‘The food's on the table, it'll be going cold. I haven't slaved in the kitchen for the last two hours just for you to treat it like some plate of commercial convenience mush.’

He sighed and continued cleaning up his neck. There was more blood than he'd thought. It had run down inside his shirt and soaked into his vest. Those stupid bastards. All the same he couldn't divert his thoughts from Lil just like that; Lil Blackley, not Lil Tyler.

She'd been a real nympho in those days; told him that it was all his doing. He was so sexy, so masculine. Lies, all lies. But they had been nice lies, boosted his ego. He'd done virtually everything she'd asked, even dispensed with contraceptives at her request. She said it was so much more exciting that way, so natural. He'd had to agree with her. Of course it was a foregone conclusion that she'd get pregnant eventually. A deliberate feminine trap? No, he didn't think so, not even now. He hadn't had a lot to offer, a poorly paid job in a bank. Good prospects, though, if he was lucky. In those days he even kidded himself that one day he'd rise to great heights within the profession. Deep down he knew he never would. He just didn't have it in him. There was something lacking. Not the will to succeed, something much more basic. Personality. You either had it or you didn't. Ray Tyler didn't. Probably it was due to a lack of self-confidence, withdrawal symptoms that held you back just when it mattered. Henshaw was aware of it. So was Brownleigh, the sly, ferret-like chief clerk. Ray hated them both for their perception. And because they had ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was.

Yet he and Lillian might have made out, endured the boredom of a routine existence because it was secure. Dillon had made the gulf between them, widening it even now in the grief of his absence. Three years since that fateful night …

Ray felt the tears welling up, blurring his vision. Dillon; he could see him as clearly as if their six-year-old son was standing there in the bathroom. Curly golden hair, a mischievous grin, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his navy-blue dungarees. The way he had been the last time … Oh, Jesus God!

It all kept coming back again so vividly, each time more terrible than before. Ray Tyler clutched at the washstand, hearing the structure creak under the pressure of his weight. Dillon was downstairs in the tiny hall, begging Lillian to let him go out to play on his scooter. Her refusals were getting weaker all the time as she succumbed to his angelic infantile pleadings. ‘Oh, please, Mum. Just for five minutes. I promise I won't go on the road.’

‘It's nearly teatime, Dillon.’

‘Please, Mum. Just two minutes, then.’

‘Well, all right … only a couple of minutes. And come straight back in. And don't go on the road.’

‘Thanks, Mum. I won't go on the road.’

Tiny running feet. A door slamming.

Tyler was trying to tear himself away from the washstand, the veins on his wrists bulging as though he was pulling against steel manacles. No! Don't let him go, Lil. For God's sake stop him. Stop him before it's too late! But it would always be too late.

Somehow he freed himself but did not rush for the door. Hands were clasped over his ears tightly in a futile attempt to shut out the squeal of brakes which was ripping through his brain, tearing his nerves to shreds. Cowering, eyes tightly shut, pressing back against the wall; praying that this time it would not happen. But it did. It had to. There was no other way out, like a TV action replay, every detail a thousand times clearer because you knew exactly what was going to happen.

The screeching of tyres. Ray smelled the burning rubber, sinking to his knees in a fit of coughing. No! Spare my boy. Oh, God, spare my boy!

Impact! Metal buckling, being scraped along the tarmac surface of the road outside. Then the screams. The agony… scrabbling blindly at the door, cursing when he found it locked, fumbling with the key, dropping it. It bounced and slithered on the linoleum, somehow got behind the towel rail.

Oh, Jesus, my boy's down there. Hurt bad. Dying. Let me go to him.

Lillian was banging on the door, rattling the handle. Only this time she wasn't screaming in panic for him to open up. That was when he knew that it wasn't real, that it was only another nightmare taking over his mind in full wakefulness.

He found the key, knelt there with it in his sweaty fingers, waiting for his vision to steady, the white wall of rotating tiles to come to a standstill.

‘Ray … Ray. Are you all right?’

‘I'm OK.’ No, I'm bloody well not but you couldn't care a sod.

‘The food's out and it's getting cold, and anyway I want to get washed up so I can settle down to the telly.’

That was when the rift came between them, the night Dillon's scooter ran away with him down the steep drive and he went under the wheels of a Cortina. It had never been the same since and it never would be again. It was something he had to live with, go through time and time again.

‘Your meal's on the table,’ she said as he opened the door. ‘It'll be cold if you don't hurry up and get changed. Beats me why you can't wait to change until afterwards. Anyway, what's the trouble?’

As if she didn't know. How many times had she slapped him out of a nightmare, stopped his crying and screaming as he writhed in sweat-soaked sheets?

‘I had it bad that time,’ he replied. ‘Real bad.’

‘You'll have to try and pull yourself together,’ she snapped, turning away. ‘Don't you think I feel as badly as you about it? If you keep getting these bad turns you'll have to go and see the doctor, get some tranquillisers. I can't stand many more, sleepless nights. Anyway, as I said, the food's getting cold so get a move on.’

In that instant he felt the rage inside him returning. Blind fury that had his hands clawing the air, the hatred inside him bursting like a festering ulcer, spreading its poison into his system. He lurched forward, his gaze riveted on the back of her shapely neck, left hand straightening and going upwards, poised for a karate chop.

Somehow he stopped himself; he didn't know how, it certainly wasn't willpower. Just as the blow was about to descend his arm went limp and flopped to his side. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling the killing urge slowly leaving him. He leaned against the doorpost, physically and mentally drained. Frightened, terrified, knowing that he could have struck his wife down with the same ruthless ease with which he had felled the youths in the car park. Worse than that, he hadn't merely wanted to strike her. He'd wanted to kill her!

She had reached the foot of the stairs, oblivious to those few seconds in which her life had hung in the balance.

Her voice floated up to him, impatient, scathing. ‘Oh, do hurry up, Ray. And try and pull yourself together.’

He turned towards the bedroom, visibly trembling with fear, for the second time in the space of an hour afraid of himself and what he might do.

Chapter TWO

Ray Tyler ate methodically, swallowing the food not because he was hungry but because it was expected of him. The evening newspaper was propped up in front of him but the printed columns did not register in his brain; it was simply a barricade erected between Lillian and himself.

He glanced down at his plate, saw that the heaped morass was a vegetable hash of some sort, one of Lillian's ‘special’ concoctions. Laced with a verbal description of its ingredients to make it sound more appetising. For some reason she was holding the remnants of Sunday's roast over until Tuesday. He was grateful for that small mercy. Right now he found the thought of any kind of meat repulsive and he was sure that he could still taste the iron flavour of blood from time to time. Hell, he'd behaved like a savage … a cannibal!

‘You're an idiot.’ Lillian broke the silence after some minutes.

‘Sure I am,’ he muttered ‘Always have been in your estimation.’

‘What on earth prompted you to pick a fight with three louts?’

He nearly said ‘I don't know’ which would have been the truth. Just in time he stopped himself; it would have sounded juvenile, a schoolboy summoned before his headmaster to explain why he had flung a stone through a window during break time. Instead he answered. ‘I didn't. They started it.’ That was true anyway. Hell, she was in one of her bickering moods. He glanced at the date on the front page of his newspaper and wondered if she was suffering from premenstrual tension. Then it struck him that he couldn't remember when her period was due. These days he didn't bother much about sex, seemed to have lost the urge … except for that sudden unexpected moment of desire in the bathroom before … Christ, don't start moping over all that again!

‘How badly did you hurt them?’ There was concern in her tone. Not for him. Nor them. Just worrying about a scandal; the Tylers' respectability was at stake.

‘I don't know. I didn't hang around to find out.’ Except that I broke one's arm, nearly castrated another and bit his throat.

‘I still think you ought to inform the police.’

‘Whatever for?’ He lowered his paper, stared defiantly at her.

‘Well, they might report the incident and then you'd be charged with … well, causing grievous bodily harm or whatever they call it in legal jargon.’

‘No!’ The word came out faster and harsher than he'd intended, all his fears embodied in it. ‘I'm not going to tell the police or anybody else … and don't you go gossiping about it either.’

‘I don't gossip!’ Lillian Tyler flushed, her eyes blazing but failing to hide a brief glimmer of guilt;

Ray glanced down at his paper again and made a valiant attempt to clear his plate. This conversation was likely to springboard into any one of a dozen possible arguments.

She rose to her feet, went through into the small kitchen, returning almost immediately with two small bowls of apple pie and condensed milk.

‘I do wish you wouldn't read at the table.’ She pushed his paper a few inches to one side in order to set his bowl down in front of him.

‘Why?’ A stifled yawn, half deliberate.

‘Because it's rude.’ She sat down again. ‘And, anyway, most husbands are only too glad to talk to their wives over their evening meal.’

Here we go again. He picked up his spoon, caught sight of a distorted reflection of his face in the polished metal. He looked pale and distraught; or maybe it was just the light.

‘No signs of any promotion yet, or is that too much to ask?’

He took his time answering, trying to curb his annoyance. The regular question, asked at least once a week. ‘I haven't heard of anything’, he replied slowly and decided against telling her that only recently he had turned down a chief cashier's post at a larger branch. Chief cashiers were chief cashiers, whether in large or small branches, and that was that. The management's scapegoats; the whipping boys. It wasn't promotion, just a sideways move, another two hundred a year and double the responsibility.

‘Strewth!’ She took a mouthful of apple pie. ‘If you don't get something soon you'll be stuck in a rut for good.’

I am in a bloody rut for good but it's taking you a long time to realise it.

‘Oh, by the way’ - another frown of disapprovement - ‘Mrs Walton's been round this afternoon … complaining!’

‘What about?’ His face clouded, he felt a tightening of his muscles.

‘The hens. Your hens. I told you there'd be trouble before long. Local by-laws don't permit the keeping of poultry on the Mildenhall estate. Fred Walton went down to the council offices to check up. And reported you!’

Tyler felt his anger taking over, escalating into a seething rage inside him. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. The sneaking bastard! He could see Walton's face, smug, local legislation a convenient and safe weapon to stab somebody in the back with. Even sent his wife round to get at Ray through Lillian because he hadn't the guts to come himself. The sort of tricks that timid banking colleagues did across you.

‘Ray … are you all right?’ Lillian's voice, far away, barely penetrating the red haze that hung like a curtain before Ray Tyler's eyes.

No, I'm not bloody well all right! Oh, Jesus Christ, it was just like the fight in the car park had been, his fury getting the better of him. And he was enjoying every second of it! Only this time the issue was a much more personal one, somebody he really hated rather than faceless yobs messing about with his car. He'd hated Walton for years; now he was faced with a situation he'd subconsciously yearned for all this time. Just himself and that slimy old bugger facing each other, and Walton was bloody scared as hell! The old man was backing off, hands thrown up to ward off the expected attack, pleading, whining!

There's nobody to hear you, Fred. Just you and me, and you won't recognise yourself when I've finished with you! Closing in, the first blow smashing through the old man's defence, catching him right in the mouth, dislodging something that had him choking as he doubled up, blood starting to pour from his lacerated lower lip. Ray stood back, savouring the sight, the way Fred Walton clutched at his throat, tried to vomit but only blood came out.

Ray was laughing, watching Walton writhing on the ground, suddenly realising; that blow had dislodged the other's dentures, shoved them right back down his throat. Oh, God, this was too good to be true! He'd choke, die slowly.

There was no point in putting the boot in. Just stand and watch. And laugh. So easy, so beautifully satisfying. That lined and slinky face smeared crimson, the sheer terror in the eyes because he knew he was choking to death.

‘Ray … Ray!’ Lillian's screams. Sod the bitch, she had to be around to spoil it all! The scarlet curtain before his eyes thinned. Now he could see clearly again and his first reaction was one of disappointment. There was no Fred Walton writhing on the ground with his false teeth trying to chew their way through his windpipe. Just Lillian, white-faced, anxious, trembling. ‘Ray, what's the matter? Are you ill?’

‘I'm fine.’ He forced himself to smile, relaxing as his anger faded. ‘Just … deep in thought.’

She nodded, suddenly not wishing to pursue the train of his thoughts, deliberately changing the subject. ‘I want a hook putting in the bedroom wall to hang that picture I brought from Mother's last week.’

‘OK.’ Mother-in-law was always causing unnecessary DIY tasks. ‘I'll see to it Saturday morning. I've got some reading to do tonight.’

‘Starting to study for your Institute of Banker's exams again?’ There was a hint of sarcasm mingled with one of dissatisfaction at his slow progress towards the promotion she was continually nagging him about.

‘No.’ A twinge of guilt which he made a determined effort to shrug off. ‘A book I picked up in Rowley's during the lunch hour. Got it for a couple of quid. It's sure to be worth a tenner.’

‘The usual subject, I suppose.’ She showed her disapproval by the way she blew smoke across the table.

‘Yes, but rather different in a way. It was published last century. Basic self-sufficiency really. Mostly concerns the English peasants as far back as the Middle Ages. Herbal remedies, folklore, all that sort of stuff.’

‘My God!’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘Our future is planned then, dressed in sackcloth and ashes, living in a cave, eking out a living from the sparse soil.’

‘There's a lot to be learned from our ancestors.’ In his enthusiasm Ray Tyler overlooked her sarcasm. ‘We take too much for granted today.’

‘Like you take me.’ She pushed her chair back and began to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘You'll end up having treatment for something, somewhere, you mark my words.’

Undaunted, Ray Tyler went through to the front room, picking up the book he had purchased earlier that day. The leather binding had frayed and split at the spine, the back cover hinged with strips of Sellotape. Some of the brittle yellowed pages were loose, the flyleaf missing altogether.

Tyler lowered himself into an armchair, starting to relax for the first time that day, his recent traumas temporarily forgotten. He began to skim through the pages, noting the subject titles, in search of one which was particularly applicable to himself. Livestock … poultry (damn the Waltons and their interference) … food production … herbal remedies … peasant legends of the Middle Ages. He stopped, thumbed back a few pages. Something fascinated him about primitive beliefs.

The section was split up into sub-headings. Vampires. He gave a short laugh. You had them crammed down your throat on most of the late-night movies. They weren't frightening any more; humorous, if you were in the mood. And now that saturation point had been reached the humour was wearing a bit thin.

Werewolves. He almost skipped over the relevant pages but for some reason found himself reading paragraphs at random. One didn't encounter too many werewolves on the television screen; possibly they did not have the appeal of vampires. He remembered one film a few months ago, a Lon Chaney one in black and white. Lillian had switched it off and Ray hadn't even bothered to protest.

‘… whilst there is no evidence to support the existence of werewolves at any time during history we must bear in mind the superstitions which were rife during the Middle Ages. There were many who sought to use the forces of darkness for their own ends and we must not underestimate the powers which are beyond our comprehension … many country folk barred their doors and windows during the time of the full moon …’

Tyler had meant to pass on to some more worthwhile subject, something from which he might learn something which would be of benefit, yet he found himself reading on, suddenly engrossed in the legend of the werewolf. A kind of horrible fascination such as is enjoyed by the one who witnesses a gory road accident and secretly revels in the sight of dismembered bloody bodies.

‘… in closer detail at the man who is under the curse of the werewolf. The farmworker has been bitten by his sheepdog. Little does he realise that this dog has, in turn, been bitten by the werewolf which has been savaging the sheep in the surrounding fields for the past few months. When the next full moon rises this man undergoes a terrible experience. He is awakened in his bed by a burning sensation throughout his body, yet the feeling is not totally unpleasant. It is as though his body is absorbing some mystic power and strength, evaporating his human frailty. He rises from his bed, irresistibly drawn towards the window where he stares up at the silver orb in the night sky. The moon has an hypnotic effect upon him but even this cannot nullify the shock which is his when he notices the state of his body. His arms are longer, falling below his knees, and his instinct is to walk on all-fours. But this is not all. His skin is covered with coarse, matted hair and his calloused fingers have turned into claws with sharp ragged nails. His night attire falls from him in shreds, the seams bursting under the strain of an enlarged torso. He recoils in horror as he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror. His head is that of a wolf huge yellowed fangs, wide nostrils, and small red eyes.’

Ray Tyler licked his dry lips, thought that he could still taste blood. His stomach seemed to churn; it might have been that vegetable hash of Lillian's. He didn't want to read any more, snapped the book shut, but his thumb caught in between the pages, sprung it back open. That ghoulish fascination for the repulsive took command again and his gaze picked out another paragraph.

‘… his terror is only short-lived. It is replaced by a feeling of elation. He is the supreme being, stronger and fiercer than any living creature and far more cunning …’

Tyler shuddered as it all came back to him; the way he had defeated those youths with the odds stacked heavily against him, broken the big one's arm with the ease of a brittle twig. It couldn't be, though! This was all rubbish. Fantasy.

‘… having vacated his bed he now drops on to all-fours, a position in which it seems much easier to walk. He pads softly from the house and outside into the moonlight. Here he emits a fearful howl, baying the moon, a sound so dreadful that any who hear it cower in their beds. They have no difficulty in recognising the killing cry of the werewolf.’

‘The werewolf, meanwhile, is crazed by the thought of fresh blood and raw meat. He must savage and eat at the earliest opportunity. The feeding habits of the werewolf are the most disgusting of all legendary creatures. The vampire is delicate and seductive by comparison, leaving only a small mark as he pierces the jugular vein and drinks the blood of the victim. However, the werewolf knows no such niceties. His sharp claws rip his prey to shreds in a matter of seconds and he greedily crams the bloody flesh into his cavernous jaws, munching and slurping his delight. In nearly all cases he begins the assault by ravaging the throat of his victim.’

‘The werewolf prowls in search of further prey, and now that his hunger is appeased he will kill for the sake of killing but often his sexual desires predominate. His bloodlust satisfied, he will now concentrate primarily on rape.’

‘The following night, with the rising of the full moon, he is abroad again, the curse growing stronger and stronger until finally the moon begins to wane, when for some three weeks the accursed will revert to normal human life. But there is no cure for this illness, no release even in death.

‘Ways in which to kill a werewolf.’

‘A werewolf can be destroyed by a bullet moulded from silver …’

Ray Tyler looked up, suddenly aware of his wife's presence. Lillian was standing behind his chair, an expression of contempt on her face. It was quite obvious that she had been reading over his shoulder.

‘Hey!’ He could not restrain the exclamation which embodied all his guilt, slamming the book shut with a loud thud, half rising to his feet.

‘What a load of rubbish!’ she sneered. ‘I suppose you're going to give up banking and take to rearing werewolves! I suppose you'll drive them to market once a week.’

‘Shut up! Damn you, shut up!’ He was on his feet now, clutching his book in one hand, holding on to the mantleshelf with the other. He felt dizzy, swayed slightly.

‘You're getting neurotic.’ She moved away towards the television set, pushed a button, and distorted sound filled the room, forcing her to raise her voice. ‘Either that or you're going nuts.’

Angrily he turned away and with the book still in his hand walked out into the hall. His evening's relaxation was ruined, over before it was begun. If he stayed he might do something really drastic; like assaulting Lillian. Once he started on her he knew that he would have no control over his actions. And that was what frightened him most.

He stood there in the hall, the living room door closed. A sense of abandonment, hopelessness, flooded over him. There would be no peace for him in his home tonight. He could have gone upstairs, shut himself in the bedroom, but the idea did not appeal to him. He felt almost … trapped!

Acting on impulse he grabbed his coat from off the peg and pulled it on. A peculiar, now almost familiar, smell assailed his nostrils. He knew what it was, all right. Blood!

He glanced down, saw the dark stain on the light grey material. It might have been anything, carelessly spilled gravy or soup, but his suddenly acute sense of smell told him otherwise. It was logical, of course, that he had got blood on his coat. But the fact that he could actually smell it amazed him. Previously his senses had been dulled; a jaded palate, impaired hearing (only pride prevented him from wearing an aid), glasses needed for close work. Now suddenly he felt that every sense was tuned to perfection.

He stood there, the fear mounting inside him. Lillian's constant scathing … ‘too timid … getting neurotic … going nuts.’ The book in his hand felt almost as though it pulsed with abnormal life ‘… begins the assault by ravaging the throat of his victim.’ Oh, Jesus God!

Instinct began to take over from logic. Flee! Tyler was already at the front door, had it half open before he managed to get himself under control. Almost.

He was breathing heavily, could smell the stale sweat beneath his arms. This was crazy. Or he was. That werewolf stuff. Fantasy? Sure it was … yet …

Tyler tried to remember how he'd felt when it all happened. He couldn't. It was as though his mind had been a complete blank, his body powered by sheer rage and … he caught his breath … bloodlust! He'd wanted to bite that youth's throat. He'd gone for it like an enraged wild animal. A werewolf!

He had to get outside; the house was stuffy, claustrophobic. I can't bloody well stand it any longer. Nor that bitch! He almost fell down the short step, stumbling, somehow managing to keep his balance. A wave of nausea hit him; that vegetable hash. Meat had repulsed him earlier. Now he experienced a craving for it, a hunger, and yet his stomach was full.

You're not neurotic nor crazy, he tried to tell himself emphatically as he slouched down the steep drive … the same one that Dillon had … Just overwrought. Overworked. Things are getting on your nerves. Maybe a couple of stiff whiskies would help. That idea did not appeal to him either. What he needed, he decided, was a couple of hours of peace and quiet, the chance to pull himself together, sort things out in his own mind, go through the whole sequence of events and find a logical reason for everything. That done, he'd feel better. If only he hadn't started reading that stupid book. Waste of a couple of quid. Throw it away!

He held it up, the leather covers seeming to taunt him. His arm went back, then came down slowly. There was nowhere to dump it, not on the estate, anyway. Every garden was the perfection of neatness, no litter bins. It would have been all too easy just to sling it on to somebody's lawn. But it wasn't getting rid of it. It would still be lying there in the morning.

He walked on aimlessly. He had no idea where he was going. It was too far to walk back into town and, anyway, he needed solitude, not the milling cinemagoers and pub-crawlers. Even out here he felt hemmed in, a sense of airlessness, claustrophobia. He yearned for the woods and the fields, a deserted landscape. The bright street lights hurt his eyes, were bringing on a slight headache, the kind which you woke up with in the morning and lasted all day.

Automatically he was searching his pockets for cigarettes and matches, going through the motions without thinking about them. The glare of the match was blinding, the tobacco smoke acrid and suffocating. He gave way to a fit of coughing, bent double, cigarette packet and matchbox thudding on to the concrete pavement. Retching; dizzy again, almost fainting.

‘You OK, mister?’ A young voice, genuine concern.

Tyler straightened up, tried to focus through a shimmering blur, the artificial light stabbing into his eyes like tiny spears. A youth; long fair hair, denims, his face indiscernible. Oh, Jesus, not again! Leave me alone. For God's sake leave me alone! Haven't you learned your lesson yet, you stupid bastards?

‘Shall I get help, mister?’

‘No!’

Tyler backed up against a lamp post. Without its support he would have fallen. He shook his head, tried to steady his vision. The other's face came and went again. More sophisticated, kinder than those on the car park. He wasn't one of them, anyway. But it could be a trick. You never could tell. You couldn't relax your vigilance. Like this, Tyler felt defenceless.

‘You're ill,’ the youth said.

‘No, I'm not … I just had a coughing fit.’

‘You don't look good.’ The other took a step back, glancing nervously about him.

‘I'm all right, I tell you. And what bloody business is it of yours?’

Ray Tyler shook his head in an attempt to clear it, found the muzziness receding. When he looked again the youth had turned and was walking quickly away in the opposite direction. Tyler heaved a sigh of relief. Suddenly it seemed that the whole world, not just his wife, were poking their noses into his affairs. It hadn't been like this before, even as recently as a few hours ago. He had been a nobody, the faceless man-in-the-street. It worried him. He knew how a hunted man felt.

He heard more voices, listened intently. There was a pub, an ultra-modern one, just off the adjoining street. That was where the noise was coming from. In that case he would head in the opposite direction.

He walked quickly, a fugitive glancing behind him every few yards, stopping to listen, fearing lest some unknown pursuers were gaining on him. Don't be bloody ridiculous, he tried to tell himself. Nobody's interested in Ray Tyler; it's all in the mind. Nevertheless, he was unable to convince himself.

Ten minutes later he was clear of the Mildenhall estate. A main road faced him, cars exceeding the 40 mph limit, their headlights sending more shooting pains into his head. He waited on the kerb, averting his gaze, relying mostly on his hearing to tell him when there was a gap in the traffic so that he could cross.

The crossing was made at a shambling run, dry-mouthed, gasping with relief when he reached the opposite side. He paused. The weakness and the sickness were fading, his strength was returning. Strange, he mused, but why worry when you're feeling better? Smoking, that was the trouble. Twenty a day was no good to anybody. He should have realised it earlier. They even warned you on the cigarette packets yet nobody took any notice. Suicide, that was what it was, paying one helluva price to kill yourself in stages when you could jump in the river or in front of a speeding lorry and get it all over in a matter of seconds at no cost whatsoever. Well, he'd kicked the habit. For good.

The houses were less concentrated here, the original suburbia, mostly detached Edwardian dwellings in good repair with spacious gardens. You could almost breathe the freedom, the escape from a battery-type existence.

He hurried on, not knowing the locality from here onwards, trusting to his instinct. He tried to think more clearly. First, he was running away. From what? To where?

He was running because something had scared him; like a kind of sickness. A mental illness? Maybe but whatever it was he had shaken it off. Delayed shock probably after that business on the car park.

He'd always had it in mind to run away. ‘Get away from it all’ was the popular catchphrase. That was what self-sufficiency was all about; you sold up and moved someplace well away from everybody else and did your own thing. He had been working on the idea for a year or more now, tackling it systematically. Like getting a few hens and making plans to rotovate the second lawn (correction, half of the big lawn) to produce vegetables. A step at a time, producing things that would no longer have to be bought from the shops. Money saved meant money to outlay on the big project. Of course Lillian wouldn't come along when he finally reached his goal. Hell, he laughed harshly, he wouldn't want her, anyway. He was sure she would prefer to go back and live with her mother. That would free him still further.

By the time he reached the big recreation park he was feeling a whole lot better; better than he'd felt for years. Smoking had a lot to do with his mediocre health but that had already been overcome and it would mean the best part of a quid a day in his ‘freedom fund’. There was nothing to worry about at all.

He paused outside the wrought-iron gates leading into the park. He had no idea of the time but it was sure to be close on ten. Maybe he ought to be heading back; he'd have to go back sooner or later. Nevertheless, the expanse of trees and grass inside those gates was appealing, almost beckoning him. Freedom and peace of mind, an opportunity to unwind.

The gates were locked. Tyler cursed beneath his breath, tugged at the chain through which the padlock was clamped. A sound like the detonation of a child's cap gun, a clinking of metal, and he staggered back, six inches of broken chain in his hand. In the other he still held that accursed book.

‘… stronger and fiercer than any living creature.’

A broken sob escaped his dry lips. He thought he smelled blood again but it was surely in his imagination. The chain must have been rusted or had a weak link; it wouldn't have broken otherwise.

The gates swung open, hinges creaking, as though extending an invitation to him to enter. Tyler walked through, treading on the balls of his feet, his darting gaze piercing every shadow. He was trespassing, there was no doubt about that.

All park gates were kept locked between sunset and sunrise. A prickly sensation ran up and down his spine, spread out all over his body. Goose pimples. It wasn't fear because he was no longer afraid. Apprehensive perhaps; especially where that book was concerned. There was sure to be a litter bin somewhere in here. He could dump it, bury it beneath ice cream wrappers and fish and chip papers so that it would be carted away unsuspectingly by the refuse collectors; pulped up in their lorry with all the other rubbish. Destroyed for good! Then, as far as he was concerned, all those legends would be erased and he need no longer fear them.

Fifty yards or so away he spotted the bin he sought, secured to a concrete pillar, the shadows of the mesh spreading strange patterns on the grass. A grunt escaped his lips, his legs seemed to power him into action, leaping forward. Running. Falling!

Tyler hit the soft grass with a force that knocked the breath from his body, rolled over. But in his hand he still clutched the old book, holding it tightly, afraid that somehow it might escape the fate which he was determined it should suffer. Nothing else mattered.

Running again, fast bounds. Then, with the refuse receptacle only yards away, Ray Tyler came to a halt. The breath in his lungs was hot, burning like some strong spirit, intoxicating, yet even that could not prevent his apprehension from escalating into sheer terror. The terrible realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow, pounding his body, numbing his brain. No longer was he running in an upright position; he was gambolling on all-fours!

Slowly his head was raised, his eyes elevated, drawn upwards to the night sky above by some inexplicable compelling force. The silver orb of a full moon hung directly above him, bathing the world in its ethereal glow. Beautiful, peaceful, yet Tyler could feel the power which emanated from it, the warm glow soaking into his skin like the rays of an ultraviolet lamp.

‘When the full moon rises this man undergoes a terrible experience.’

Ray Tyler felt the book in his hand, the soft almost sensual texture of its covers rubbing against his skin, and knew that he would never be able to discard this bible of darkness. His fear erupted, mouth opening to emit a scream of terror that came from the depths of his very soul.

A mile or so away on the Mildenhall estate dogs began to bark; some whined, others howled in fear. Even the results of careful breeding over the centuries had not been able to eradicate the basic fears that had existed in their canine ancestors when their evolution was in its infancy. Bred to a life of ease in centrally-heated suburban homes even these pampered creatures knew and recognised the cry of a hunting wolf!

Chapter THREE

It was shortly after midnight when Ray Tyler let himself in through the front door, closing it softly behind him, standing listening. Not a sound except the loud ticking of the clock in the living room. Guilt mingled with fear. Surely Lillian would be lying awake waiting for him; he was surprised to find that she was not still downstairs.

He remained in the hall for several minutes trying to bring his nerves under control, preparing himself for the inevitable showdown with his wife. It had been building up to a climax for some time now. Perhaps it was best to get it over with as soon as possible.

He still had the book. Hell, it was getting like a bad penny that you couldn't get rid of, no matter how hard you tried. It was all rubbish, a load of nonsense, but it was playing on his nerves.

He tried hard to remember what had happened tonight. His memory was fogged, some incidents clearer than others, but it was the blank periods which worried him most of all … like what had happened between his entering the park until he found himself back at the main road almost walking beneath a speeding lorry.

A movement upstairs, a stirring creaking sound. As he had suspected his wife was still awake, busily totting up the questions to be asked on her long shapely fingers. An interrogation as thorough as the Spanish Inquisition was being prepared for him. He laughed silently, harshly. The bitch, it was time she was put in her place!

All the same, he wished that he could remember exactly what had happened between entering and leaving that recreation park. Lillian could wait a few minutes; he had to try and sort all this out in his own mind first. He knew that he was unable to get rid of the book, a publication for which he didn't even know the title. There was no lettering on the spine and with the flyleaf missing the volume remained anonymous; it would have been interesting to know more about it, to have some guide to its authenticity. Maybe he'd ask old Rowley at the shop tomorrow. A funny old bird, but he was well read and might have some idea. In the meantime what had happened tonight?

First, that dizzy turn; he couldn't really believe that it was due to excessive smoking. Hundreds of thousands of people got through more than twenty a day without suffering any real health hazards. He remembered entering the park, the way the chain around the gates had snapped. For the moment he must assume that it had been rusted through, there was no other explanation. However, his strength had seemed to increase. An illusion, maybe.

Then he had fallen. Possibly he had hit his head. Certainly he had travelled on all-fours for some distance. Maybe dazed and winded he had crawled, even back as far as the gates, then blacked out. He didn't remember coming round as such; just finding himself walking - upright - nearly being run down by that lorry.

A few mental calculations, trying to work out some times. It must have been 10.30 when he arrived at the park. It was now 12.15. The round trip couldn't have taken more than two hours. That meant there was a blank of about an hour … the time whilst he was inside those gates!

He started to sweat again. Fear. He wondered if the mysterious book held the key to it all. Christ, no, he wasn't going to start reading that again, a load of nonsense that was filling his mind with imaginary terrors; he wished he'd never bought it. Tomorrow he would make a determined effort to get rid of it. Damn these modern houses with no open fires. A blazing coal fire in the living room would have served his purpose. Or would it? In all probability the book would have refused to burn, still there intact and charred amidst the dead ashes next morning.

He placed it on the small table beside the telephone, jerked his gaze away from it.

‘Ray … is that you?’ Lillian's voice from upstairs, apprehensive.

Of course it's me, you stupid cow. He moved towards the stairs, began to mount them slowly. Now for it!

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and moved just inside. She was in bed, propped up with a couple of pillows, the room illuminated by the small reading lamp on the bedside table. He thought about switching on the main light and decided against it. This way he sensed a slight advantage; she couldn't read his expression but he could read hers.

‘Where the hell've you been?’ her voice quavered. She had obviously been crying, was close to tears again.

‘I went out for a walk.’

Silence. A question asked and answered. She wouldn't let it rest at that, though.

‘You've got another woman, haven't you?’ Her voice trembled and for a moment he thought she was going to erupt into a flood of tears. ‘Come on, Ray, I want the truth.’

He laughed, a croak that embodied his contempt; not just for her, for himself. ‘No woman would want anything to do with me, you've said that yourself scores of times.’

‘There are streetwalkers in town. Sluts!’

He stared at her as the full impact of her words hit him. The insult kindled the fire of anger again, he felt it building up, his temples starting to pulse. A sharp intake of breath, and then he was suddenly aware of something else, a pleasant sensation in the lower regions of his body, another basic desire that was far stronger than the fury he was on the verge of unleashing. He glanced downwards, saw the protrusion in the front of his trousers, the same as it had been in the bathroom a few hours earlier; an urge that could not be denied this time.

‘I … haven't been with a woman.’ He had to force the words out. ‘But I need one right now!’

‘What … whatever do you mean?’ Her eyes widened and she pushed herself back into the pillows behind her as though she was trying to wriggle away from him.

‘This is what I mean!’ He began to undress, tearing jacket and shirt from his body, heedless of a button which pinged against the radiator beneath the window, fighting to tug his trousers down, then kicking them to one side. Within seconds he was naked, his body trembling with the force of the lust inside it,

‘Look!’ He moved nearer, displaying swollen pulsing flesh in the light of the small lamp. ‘Would I be like this now if I'd been with another woman?’

Lillian opened her mouth to speak but no words came. Instinctively she was pulling the bedclothes tight around her, an expression of horror and disgust on her face. She glanced towards the door but realised the hopelessness of flight. Anyway, she could not just dash outside into the street in her nightdress. She swallowed.

‘I need it, badly,’ Ray Tyler grunted. He grasped the sheets, and in one apparently effortless movement dragged them from the bed, throwing them into an untidy heap on the floor.

‘Ray …’ Lillian huddled herself into a ball, legs drawn up in an instinctive posture of self-protection, green nylon nightdress held tightly against her, unwittingly accentuating the sensuous outline of her shapely breasts. ‘Ray … you don't have to do this …’

‘Don't I?’ His lips curled into a snarl and he secured a grip on her garment, felt it starting to tear. ‘It's about time I took you the way a woman should be taken, Lil. No more of this gentle under-the-sheets stuff, once a week if I'm lucky, for me!’

As her night attire was ripped forcibly from her body she opened her mouth to scream. A strong hand stifled the sound almost before it left her throat, turning it into a scared gurgle. She tried to struggle; it was futile. One last desperate effort in which she clamped her thighs tightly together only to have them roughly prised apart, her legs lewdly spread open and held there by the rampant lusting body of her husband.

His kisses were hot and eager, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth simulating the violent copulation which was taking place. Every jerk of his thighs hurt her. Once she thought she was going to pass out, prayed that she might, but the fit of dizziness passed. She closed her eyes, attempted to switch herself off, but she was not going to be allowed to divorce herself from this animal-like act of mating. Never, even in their early courting days, had Ray come at her like this. Faster, faster. Surely it must end soon. He was shuddering, pushing harder into her. It must stop any second, her husband sinking down spent, rolling off her.

It didn't. The orgasm only served to spur him to even greater efforts, his fingers squeezing and gouging her body, ramming into her more purposefully, his hot fetid breath fanning her face. There was no trace of tenderness, no softly spoken words. The only sounds Ray Tyler uttered were a series of grunts and the wheezing of breath in his overworked lungs.

Possibly she had fainted! No woman could have fallen asleep during that! She stirred, the horror and realisation of it all coming back to her, cringing in her naked helplessness.

The room was in total darkness except for a single shaft of waning moonlight which filtered in through the crack in the curtains. Bedclothes covered her body and beside her she could feel the warmth from her slumbering husband. His breathing was regular and heavy. Too heavy, a rhythm of sheer exhaustion.

Lillian lay there terrified, not daring to move in case she awakened Ray. After an evening of uncharacteristic behaviour there was no knowing what he might do next. That morning he had gone to the office his usual conventional self (apart from this obsession about alternative energy and self-sufficiency); a completely different personality had returned in the evening: abusive, violent, sexually perverted … well, after several years of marriage one did not do those sort of things in bed. That she could have taken though, had she been in the mood or been gradually seduced. It was the sheer aggression which had frightened her, the manner in which his hands had encircled her neck as he built up to his second orgasm. She thought it must have been at that stage when she had blacked out.

Most definitely Ray was ill, she decided. The atmosphere of routine bank work had been wearing him down for a long time now. He had desperately sought escape routes. Perhaps she had been too scathing over his self-sufficiency obsession. If he wanted to dig up the lawn to grow vegetables and keep hens (damn the Waltons, they weren't helping right now) then it was all perfectly harmless. She ought to have pretended to go along with him, enthused in the fantasy of some remote tumbledown cottage; it would never come to that, anyway.

Now it had all gone too far and Ray had gone over the top. He needed to see a doctor in the first instance. That wasn't going to be easy; perhaps tomorrow she would ring Doctor Daniels at his surgery, maybe even go down herself and try to explain the symptoms. It would be difficult to get Ray to undergo an examination. Still, she would put the wheels in motion, and until then his every whim must be humoured … for the sake of her own safety!

Ray Tyler's head ached abominably when the alarm woke him at 7.15 the next morning. He opened his eyes, winced as the grey light hit him with the force of dazzling sunshine.

‘Christ Almighty!’ he groaned.

He felt Lillian move, swinging her body out of bed and grabbing for her clothes. Another quick peep revealed her dressing hurriedly, dire urgency in every movement as though they had overslept.

‘You'd better stay where you are.’ Her voice was soft, sympathising. ‘You're not well. I'll bring you a cup of tea and telephone the office to say that you won't be in today.’

‘I'm all right.’ He gathered his strength for one supreme effort which brought him up into a sitting position. ‘Just a bit of a hangover. It'll soon wear off, though.’ Like hell.

‘Well, take it easy then.’ The last thing she wanted was to start another argument. ‘I'll go down and put the kettle on and start the breakfast.’

He listened to her footsteps going down the stairs, hurrying as though it was a relief to be away from him. He'd gone too far last night. He needn't have gone to those lengths. A little more subtlety and she'd have let him have what he wanted, she usually did if he needed it bad enough. But he hadn't wanted it like they usually had it; he'd wanted to dominate totally, to make her submit, to hurt! And now that he'd got it out of his system it had drained him completely.

His legs would barely support his weight and his feet dragged as he made it to the bathroom. Only just in time - he was starting to retch, on his knees vomiting into the pan. He pulled himself up, hung over the basin and splashed cold water on his face. The shock of it revived him a little, and by the time he returned to the bedroom his headache had eased somewhat. He did not draw the curtains as he dressed. Daylight was the worst, the cold reality of morning punishing him for his nocturnal activities.

He descended the stairs slowly, each step jarring his whole body. Shock treatment in a way, he reflected grimly. Christ, what had happened last night? His gaze alighted on the hall table. It was empty except for the telephone and a couple of directories. Ray Tyler froze, hand gripping the stair rail, body tautening. The book … he remembered having left it there last night. Now it was gone! He closed his eyes, made an effort to pull himself together. Lillian had probably moved it. Deliberately. He opened his mouth, was going to shout, ‘Where the hell have you put my book?’ He stopped himself just in time. It didn't matter, not even if she'd burned it, although she couldn't have done that because they didn't have any fires. Possibly she had hidden it, intending to destroy it later. In which case he should be grateful because he didn't want to see those fading yellowing pages again. Werewolves were just mass hysteria that had spread like heath fires in the Middle Ages. Witch-hunting.

Things were getting on top of him, not just at the bank but here as well. That was the trouble. If he didn't get a grip on himself he could be heading for trouble.

‘Christ!’ He coughed as he entered the kitchen, scowled through a haze of tobacco smoke. ‘I wish you wouldn't smoke first thing in the morning.’

‘Hypocrite’, she retorted. ‘You usually light one up in the bathroom.’

‘I've packed it in. For good.’

‘I've heard that before.’ A nervous laugh. ‘Remember the time when we used to go to church and you tried to give up smoking for Lent. I think it lasted about a week.’

‘I've given it up, I tell you.’ He banged the table angrily with his fist, causing crockery to rattle. ‘Ihate tobacco smoke. I can't stand it!’

She paled, felt herself starting to tremble and remembered last night. Would she ever forget it? He'd been like a wild beast. No affection, just lust. And at the height of it all she'd sensed a hatred in him as though he was doing it because he despised her. At the moment, though, he had to be humoured because he was dangerous! She could tell by the way he looked at her; nothing to do with the fact that she'd filled the room with cigarette smoke. Simply that she was here, his wife. She fought to hold back the tears. ‘All right, I'll give it up, too. I've been looking for a good excuse to pack it in for some time but couldn't do it with you blowing smoke all over me. That's it, then. Smoking is forbidden at number eighty-seven from this moment onwards.’ She tried to laugh but only a strange throaty sound came out. She quivered because of the way he was eyeing her up almost as if … as if he was going to attack her again!

‘That's settled then.’ There was an air of finality about the way he spoke.

‘Aren't you going to eat some breakfast?’ She noticed that he was reaching his coat down from where it was hanging behind the door.

‘I'm not hungry,’ he snapped, aware of his own lack of appetite, the way the smell of frying bacon almost had him retching.

‘All right.’ The last thing she wanted was an argument; there was no knowing what its outcome might be. ‘I was thinking of going to Mother's today but I'll probably leave it over until next week. I feel too tired to make the effort.’

She watched him go out to the garage, stood at the kitchen window as he backed the car out. She could tell by the way he was mouthing curses at passing motorists whilst waiting his opportunity to ease the Viva out on to the road, that his nerves were stretched almostto breaking point. He was a hair's breadth away from a nervous breakdown.

She went through to the hall, picked up a telephone directory, and looked up the number of Doctor Daniels' surgery.

George Henshaw was noted for his early morning irritability, a state of mind which was accepted by every member of the branch of the bank including Cyril Brownleigh, the sardonic chief clerk. The manager's mood either improved or worsened by ten o'clock when an apprehensive member of the female staff tapped timidly on his door, and upon hearing the peremptory ‘yes’ entered with a cup of coffee. To slop some of the muddy brown liquid into the saucer was inviting unparalleled sarcasm or possibly a sudden outburst of rage.

That, generally, was the only contact between staff and management before 10.30. The door remained closed and what went on inside was one of life's unsolved mysteries. However, should that door with the frosted-glass panel open prior to 10.30 then it boded ill for those who worked in the main office. Some insignificant telephoned or written complaint from a customer was sufficient to incur the wrath of George Henshaw and he lost no time in singling out the culprit. Or a scapegoat.

Even bank personnel officers went in awe of Henshaw. Complaints by staff were many, but few, if any, were ever referred to the personnel manager himself. George Lionel Henshaw was a law unto himself in banking circles. Feared, if not always respected, he was generally avoided whenever possible. With only a year left until his retirement there was a dog-eared calendar in the stationery room which bore evidence of biro ticks against each day. It was rumoured that even Cyril Brownleigh had made the occasional mark.

Even the most trivial of tasks required a determined effort on Ray Tyler's part that morning. The signing of his name in the Attendance Book was a certain sign that it was going to be ‘one of those days’. His initial signature, he discovered too late, was on the wrong line and then, after some heavy deletions, the ballpoint pen ran dry. He spent several minutes searching the counter for another pen before his first duty was finally completed.

Even as he escorted a trolley load of cash up from the strongroom below he sensed an atmosphere of unease more marked than usual. Brownleigh was silent apart from an occasional grunt as though his responsibility weighed heavily on his mind. The junior girls, too, did not seem inclined to engage in their usual adolescent banter interspersed with whispered anecdotes of how their sex lives were progressing.

The general feeling mingled with Tyler's worries, bringing on an acute depression. By the time he had finished setting up his till in readiness for the day's business he regretted not having taken Lillian's advice and remained at home in bed.

A five-pound bag of silver split as he transferred it from the wooden cash box to his till, showering coins all over the floor. He licked his dry lips. It was an omen!

George Henshaw's office door flew open, crashing back against its doorstop with a force that rattled the opaque pane of glass, threatening to splinter it into a thousand pieces. Heads went down, busily finding sudden urgent tasks. A moment of pregnant silence in which every one of the twenty-three clerks prayed that it would not be their name which would be bellowed forth any second.

‘Mr Tyler!’ When the manager's emphasis was on one's title, one knew that big trouble was in store. Henshaw's cheeks were flushed, his eyes blazing over the top of his half-framed gold spectacles. ‘Mr Tyler!’ A second volley just on the off-chance that for some unbelievable reason you might have missed the first one.

Tyler turned slowly, glancing behind him, saw the irate bank manager and stiffened slightly. He finished gathering up the last of the spilled coins, deliberately taking his time. Brownleigh coughed nervously. A couple of girls by the computer looked at each other, winced.

‘Mr Tyler, I'm talking to you’ Henshaw had a roll of computer printout in his hand. It rustled ominously.

Ray Tyler turned, began to walk across the office.

‘Your till, man.’ Henshaw's tone was virtually a scream of rage. ‘You don't leave the counter without locking your till!’

The cashier slowed to a halt, hesitated. A deliberate confrontation, the other seizing on a petty rule as a means of undermining the confidence of an employee before the crucial issue, whatever that might be; a psychological breaking-down process.

‘It'll keep.’ Tyler stepped forward again, eyes riveted on the smaller man, meeting his gaze and holding it. Someone gave a loud intake of breath; Brownleigh was scratching noisily on his pad with an old-fashioned ink pen. Nervous doodling. Two of the girls slunk out to the ladies' room. This was one day when everybody wished that they had reported sick.

Henshaw stepped back into his room, holding the door wide, then slammed it loudly the moment Tyler was inside. They faced each other, a moment of silence that was more poignant than any verbal outburst.

‘You!’ Henshaw was having difficulty in controlling his rage, crumpling and twisting the printout. ‘Are a complete imbecile!’

Tyler did not reply. He stood there looking at the manager, his features totally expressionless, determined neither to cower or to give way to his escalating rage … yet!

Another pause. Tyler could hear the other's breath wheezing in his lungs.

‘You cashed a cheque for Dunkworth yesterday.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes you … did!’ Henshaw had never been heard to utter a swear word. It seemed that that record was on the verge of being destroyed. ‘For forty pounds. Which takes his unauthorised overdraft almost to a hundred. You are responsible for him going into the red in the first place. Last week you cashed a thirty, and in spite of the warning note which I passed down the counter about him …’

‘If you'd take the trouble to look before you open your big mouth’ Ray Tyler's fury erupted with the suddenness of a tropical tornado. In one movement he snatched the printout from Henshaw's hand, unfolded it, smoothed out the creases and jabbed a forefinger halfway down the ‘D’ section. ‘D for Dunkworth, spelt D…U…N…K…’

‘How dare you!’ Henshaw clawed at the sheet but Tyler held it up out of his reach. ‘I won't be …’

‘Just try listening for a change. Dunkworth, T.L. Current Account, overdrawn £97.36. Deposit Account … they're the one's we pay the customer interest on. Remember?’

Words failed George Henshaw. His cheeks puffed out turning from pink to a deeper hue, hands still groping vainly in an attempt to recover the computerised list of balances.

‘Dunkworth, T.L.’ Ray Tyler's voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Deposit Account £200.20. And if you'd investigated even further you'd have discovered that there's a transfer from deposit to current of £100. It didn't go through the work yesterday because the computer broke down. So it'll be credited today, wiping out a fictitious overdraft. And as a result you've jumped in with both feet and made yourself the laughing stock of the office. Mind you, that's a regular happening these days!’

The bank manager's cheeks deflated as he expelled a gasp of pent-up air and rage. One glance was enough to tell him that Tyler spoke the truth. Suddenly his authority was crumbling, an edifice which he had carefully nurtured over the years. The realisation was too much for him. Even before the blow landed he was having second thoughts about it, checking the impetus of his swinging open flabby hand, hearing it strike the cashier's face with a noise like a fillet of wet cod falling on to a quarried floor. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Let's pretend it never happened.

Tyler felt the blow through the haze of rage which it triggered off, responding instantly, instinctively. His right hand came up, palm outwards to return the slap, then clenched into a bunched fist a fraction of a second before impact. Bone against bone, the knuckles splintering Henshaw's hooked nose, throwing the manager backwards across the room in a sudden gush of scarlet blood.

George Henshaw crashed against a steel radiator, slumped to his knees; knelt there clutching at his face, blood pouring from between his fingers, eyes wide in horror and disbelief.

Tyler advanced, dropping into a crouch, a voice somewhere inside his screaming. ‘Go on, finish him!’ The sight of the other's blood fascinated him, spurred him on, oblivious to everything else.

‘Stop it, Tyler. Stop it at once. Are you mad?’

Ray Tyler turned slowly towards the doorway, saw Brownleigh standing there aghast, a sea of blurred faces behind him. The cashier checked, took a deep breath, heard himself say. ‘The bastard hit me first.’

The room was crowded. Tyler was being pushed to one side, Brownleigh hovering around Henshaw murmuring meaningless insincere words of comfort, telling some of the girls to fetch warm water and a sponge from the cloakroom. They were all gloating, oh God, how they were gloating, Ray Tyler sniggered to himself. Every one of them would've liked to see Henshaw laid there dead in a pool of that blood which was already soaking into the carpet. Their horror would have been genuine whilst sympathy was feigned for the sake of respectability. So easy because somebody else had done what none of them had the nerve to do. If they could have wished the bank manager dead and struck him down by some untraceable means, which in itself would not have had any repercussions nor troubled their consciences, then Henshaw would have died a long time ago.

‘You bloody fool!’ Brownleigh turned to Tyler, his words malicious, saying what the semi-conscious Henshaw expected to hear. ‘This'll finish you for sure. I'll have to report this to Head Office. Sanders, the personnel manager, will want to see you about this.’

Sanders would be overjoyed secretly but no way would he show it, the same way that he hid his personal dislike for George Henshaw. The name of the game was hypocrisy.

Tyler stared at the blood which had slowed to a steady ooze. Christ, he'd enjoyed that! Whatever the consequences he would have no regrets. One maybe … he'd only half done the job. Last time, the time when a sudden telephone call had quelled the flashpoint, he'd have gone through with it. They would really have seen blood then, pints of it spouting across the office, the girls screaming and trying to dodge it.

Now they had Henshaw on his feet, Brownleigh on one side, the pallid security clerk, Anderson, looking as though he was going to throw up any second, on the other. Henshaw was groaning loudly, snorting blood like a wounded dragon.

‘Get Mr Henshaw up to the rest room.’ Brownleigh was breathing heavily under the strain of his burden. ‘Miss Burnden … get the staff manager at Head Office on the phone for me.’

As the tall ginger-haired girl hastened away all eyes were on Ray Tyler. Hostile stares. Accusing. Banking robots who lived and worked by the book. Creeps. Yes-men … and women. Puppets in Henshaw's own tiny bureaucratic system, obedient even though their master was temporarily incapable of pulling the strings. Tyler returned their glares, hating them now almost as much as he detested the bloodied man who was being helped across the floor and through the outer office.

And in that instant his mind was made up; he came to the decision which for years had floated in front of him like some will-o'-the-wisp. His banking career was all washed up and he wasn't even going to try and rescue it. Sure he could have apologised, suffered the ignominy of a transfer to some minor clerical post in a large branch where he would be forgotten amidst the legions of banking's lost causes. They were unlikely to sack him. Banks did not like adverse publicity even
when they were not the offenders; far better to sweep it all under the management's carpet. Easier. For them!

Tyler moved decisively across the main office sensing every pair of eyes following him. Miss Burnden was talking into a wall phone, urgently, stammering. Fuck her, somebody ought to but Ray didn't fancy the task. He smiled faintly to himself, pausing only to reach round the door of the male cloakroom for his coat.

One glance backwards as he lifted the side flap of the counter to let himself out into the main banking hall. A huddle of bunched bodies, a cluster of nervous bank clerks in the doorway of Henshaw's room. Gloating over an added bonus of somebody else's misfortunes.

He let the flap fall with a loud bang, slowed briefly to savour this moment just as the banking herd were savouring it. Somewhere it sounded as though somebody was being sick. Probably Henshaw; it could have been one of the girls who had seen too much blood in one day.

By the time he reached the car park Tyler's nerves were perfectly under control. A hand strayed instinctively to his pocket for a cigarette but before he had time to remember his decision to drop the habit the revulsion for tobacco killed his momentary craving and he snatched his fingers away. He needed no sedatives nowadays. He was stronger and fitter than he had ever been at any time in his life.

‘… the supreme being, stronger and fiercer than any living creature …’

Crap! He hoped that Lillian had already destroyed that book.

‘Even a worm will turn.’ Maybe Lillian had something there after all. What she needed was a strong man, somebody to dominate her. Well, she had one now.

He reached the Viva, unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel. Funny how different, how ordinary the car park looked now. Last night could have been just a dream. It wasn't, though; Ray Tyler knew that it had all happened.

He drove slowly. The traffic was congested and on two occasions he had long waits at traffic lights. It gave him time to think. Perhaps he ought not to go straight home. He stroked his chin meditatively. It was rough and coarse to the touch. Oh, Jesus Christ! He sat bolt upright, adjusted the driving mirror so that he could see his own reflection: pallid features, red-rimmed eyes … a thick dark stubble of beard!

Then relief flooded over him as he remembered that he had forgotten to shave that morning. He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes for a second or two. His nerves weren't as steady as he tried to make out.

Behind him horns were blaring as impatient motorists informed him that the lights had changed to green.

Chapter FOUR

There was no sign of Lillian when Ray Tyler let himself in through the back door. He paused in the small kitchen, listening. Possibly she was out shopping; he hoped she wasn't next door gossiping with Elsie Walton. Then he heard the splashing of water immediately above him and he knew that she was in the bath. He went upstairs confidently, knowing that he had her at a disadvantage.

Shocked surprise registered on her features when he opened the door and looked into the steam-filled room. Lillian was lying full-length in the bath, a soapy froth of bubbles lapping and fizzing over her breasts and stomach. Her legs were bent, thighs parted, and the way she snatched her fingers away from between them had him wondering if he had surprised her in the midst of some secret pleasurable act. Possibly this explained her apparent disinterest in regular sex.

‘Ray!’ Her concern was genuine. ‘You're ill. They've sent you home. I told you you should never have gone this morning.’

He smiled, noting the cluster of love bites around her neck, the bruises on her breasts; he'd really gone to town on her last night. ‘They didn't send me home. It was my own decision.’

‘Because you're ill.’

‘I've never felt better in my life. In fact, I've achieved an ambition today. I've done something I've been dying to do for years but never had the courage to go through with.’

Lillian was sitting upright now, water cascading from her, reaching for the towel behind her.

‘I've lamped old Henshaw, clouted him so bloody hard that his nose is broken in about three places. You should've seen the blood. It was just like somebody had killed a pig in his office!’ Tyler laughed loudly.

‘Oh, my God!’ Lillian clutched at the side of the bath. ‘You must be mad. They'll sack you and then what'll happen? This house is mortgaged to the bank and with unemployment higher than it's ever been …’

‘There's always the dole,’ His gaze focused on the dark ‘V’ of lower hair, trying to obtain a full view of the soft pink flesh beneath it ‘Supplemented by our self-sufficiency programme, of course.’

You're mad, she thought. She remembered her earlier attempts to telephone Doctor Daniels. The line had been constantly engaged. She had intended to try again later in the day but now it would be very difficult.

‘I'll go and put the kettle on for a coffee.’ He half turned away. ‘Oh, by the way, if the telephone rings … just let it ring.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘It'll probably be the banking hierarchy summoning me to be carpeted.’

‘You'll have to face it sometime.’

‘Sometime, yes. But not just yet. Let them sweat. You won't believe this but Henshaw hit me first.’

She didn't reply because she didn't believe him.

Lillian quivered violently as she dried herself. Her nerves were stretched to the limit. She couldn't take much more, something had to give under the strain soon. She was frightened, too; frightened at being alone in the house with this man who had raped her so savagely last night.

Her thoughts turned to some means of escape. Perhaps she could invent some excuse to go over to her mother's and spend the night there, even two or three nights. But it was not a long-term solution. Eventually she would have to return and face up to the rapidly growing cancer which was eroding their domestic life. Maybe Doctor Daniels would be able to help. The difficulty lay in persuading Ray to undergo an examination. If this was achieved then doubtless it would involve psychiatric treatment, even a spell in a mental hospital. Then the stigma. The Waltons would make sure that the whole estate was made aware of Ray's condition. She sighed. They'd have to move out of the district. After this latest bout of madness at the bank they would probably have to sell up anyway.

She finished drying herself, dressed, and went downstairs. Ray was sitting in the living room drinking coffee. A second steaming mug was placed on the mantleshelf in readiness for her. She picked it up, sat down, and stared into it. At that moment the telephone started to ring, a harsh jangling sound that jarred every nerve in her body, made her want to scream hysterically.

‘Let it ring,’ Ray said. ‘Whoever it is they'll soon get fed up.’

‘It might be Mother.’

‘Then she'll get fed up.’

Silence. Except for the persistence of the telephone bell. Lillian wished that they'd had a modern bleeper installed. Of course it was the bank, they both knew that. Brownleigh taking delight in ringing to report that the personnel officer wanted to see Ray. Or maybe even a summons to Head Office to be carpeted by the staff manager himself. The consequences were inevitable; there was nowhere to run.

After several minutes the noise died away. She glanced across at Ray. He seemed relaxed, not in the least concerned about recent events. That was because he was ill, already in the early stages of a nervous breakdown.

‘By the way.’ He set his empty mug down on the carpet by his feet. ‘I take it you've already destroyed my book.’

‘No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I wouldn't do anything like that.’

‘Wouldn't you? You dumped a pile of my sex mags in the dustbin once.’

‘That was different. They were obscene.’

‘Since you're now a self-appointed censor perhaps you'd tell me what you've done with my book.’

‘It's there behind you. On the shelf.’

He turned his head, saw the Sellotaped spine, the way it jutted out prominently from the rest of the books. You couldn't miss it; it was … hypnotic in a way.

‘I was hoping you'd done something drastic with it.’ His voice was low, little more than a whisper as though he was merely voicing his own innermost thoughts.

You're ill, no doubt about that, she thought. And I'm not stopping here in the house alone with you tonight, not after last night. I'll go to Mother's later, telephone back and say she isn't well and that I'm stopping over a day or two. At least I'll get a breathing space that way, a chance to talk to Doctor Daniels.

‘It's too nice to stay indoors.’ Tyler rose to his feet, stood staring out into the garden through the large picture window. ‘I'd intended to do some planting out at the weekend anyway. Guess I may as well make a start now. And don't get answering the phone whilst I'm out there.’

‘I won't.’ She sighed. ‘As a matter of fact I think I'll go to Mother's after all.’

‘Good idea.’ He welcomed the chance of a day on his own. ‘But don't get telling her about …’

‘I'll see you later.’ She moved quickly out into the hall, not wanting him to see the way her eyes were misting up. ‘If I'm going to be late I'll give you a call …’ Her words faded. No telephones were going to be answered in this house today.

‘Don't bother,’ he called after her. ‘I'll expect you when I see you.’

The front door slammed and Lillian Tyler was gone. Ray moved into the kitchen, watching her progress down the drive, noted the shapeliness of her hips and bottom inside the tight-fitting jeans. He hadn't really looked at her that way for a long time. Last night had brought it home to him again. Maybe tonight …

He went upstairs and took his time changing into an old pair of slacks and a torn sweater in the bedroom. Then he moved to the window and stood looking down on the garden, the whole conventional scene displayed in an aura of early spring sunshine. Well, not quite conventional. Several square yards of the upper lawn had been dug up, the clods upturned, grass still visible in places; they would have to be broken up into a fine tilth before he could sow any seeds. That would be his first job today.

In the apex of the triangular garden a brand new poultry arc stood beneath the lower branches of a weeping willow. The boards and wire netting had an unmistakable newness about them. A package deal, the whole lot including twelve Rhode Island Reds and feeding equipment for £100. He had told Lillian he'd got it for £50; she'd pulled a face and remarked that the suppliers must have seen him coming. To hell with what she thought, it wasn't her money he'd invested.

The hens seemed restless today. They'd recovered from the trauma of their train journey, scratching in the soil and gazing longingly at the rest of the garden outside the wire. Now that they had established that this was their home, Tyler mused, it probably wouldn't hurt to let them wander free in the garden for an hour or two. A scratch in the borders wouldn't do any harm, give them some exercise.

He went downstairs and outside, unlatched the wire netting door to the pen and lifted it off. The birds clucked their delight and amazement at this sudden offer of freedom and began fluttering out into the open, with the exception of two which appeared more nervous than the rest, crouching in a corner.

Ray Tyler turned away and went into the garage in search of a fork with which to smash up the sods of soil. By the time he returned the last two hens were scratching on the lawn with the other ten. He smiled, felt remarkably at peace with the world and jabbed the fork into a clump of earth.

‘Oi, what the bloody 'ell's goin' on?’

Tyler jumped at the sudden intrusion of his peace, the harsh voice grating on his nerves. He straightened up, looked around and saw the tall man with thinning hair in the adjoining garden. Fred Walton's complexion was a deep red, blue veins standing out starkly on his forehead and neck. And it was quite obvious that he had lost his temper.

‘What d'yer think this is, a bleedin' smallholdin'?’ Walton came across to the flimsy length of knee-high fencing. ‘Your soddin' 'ens, which you ain't allowed to keep in the first place, are scratchin' up my seed bed.’

Tyler followed the other's pointing finger. It was right enough. A couple of hens were busily foraging in a tiny square of newly turned earth. Blast them, he'd given them the freedom of the garden but they weren't satisfied; the Walton's patch, apparently, had far more to offer.

‘I've bloody reported you once already,’ Fred Walton fumed. ‘Right now the missus is on the phone to the council. They'll soon put you in yer bleedin' place!’

Tyler felt his relaxation, the hour or so of peace which had flooded over him like some soothing balm, evaporating. The tenseness came back, a dull ache that started in his neck and spread out over the rest of his body, tautening every muscle. He was holding the fork in both hands, feeling it vibrate as though it was absorbing his own rising anger.

‘I'll get them out and shut them up.’ His voice was terse; he was frightened of his own fury now, knowing how it got a grip on him and blinded him to reason. He didn't want to get out of control again, not so soon. So long as Walton didn't push him too far. ‘Just keep your cool.’

‘Keep my bloody cool! Some chance when I'm forced to live next door to a barmy cunt like you!’

The rage exploded inside Tyler with the force of a grenade, shattering every vestige of self-control, a blinding red haze shimmering before his eyes, blood pounding through his veins like a mountain torrent in full spate. His right arm went back, the fork balanced between thumb and forefinger, a five-pronged spear about to be launched on a mission of death.

‘Hey!’ Fred Walton saw the danger seconds before Tyler's arm shot forward propelling the heavy tool into space. The older man flung up an arm, a frail defence against the ten-pound fork, closing his eyes as though resigned to the fact that there was no way he could stop the sharpened steel points from shattering his skull and ripping through his brain.

And then, with death almost a foregone conclusion, his foot caught against the protruding roots of a rose bush in the small border, the twisted length holding firm, jerking on his ankle as he tried to run, pulling him down heavily. He hit the lawn hard, the thick turf acting as a cushion. Even as he fell the fork thudded into the ground a couple of yards behind him, standing vertical, quivering like the shaft of an arrow embedded in an archery target.

Walton closed his eyes, prayers mingling with profanity as he realised that he was still alive. Had he conceded to Elsie's demands to dig up those old rose bushes at the weekend then surely he would be dead now. He opened his eyes, cringed as he saw Tyler had stepped over the fence and was standing looking down on him, fists clenched and features dark with fury.

‘Oi, I'll 'ave the police on yer!’

The coarse female voice grated on Tyler, checked the foot that was being drawn back to drive a wellington boot into the fallen man's pelvis. The bank clerk turned his head, through the haze of rage saw a plump grey-haired woman in a red and white striped apron shaking a meaty forearm in his direction.

‘You might've killed my 'usband,’ she screeched. ‘I saw yer fling that fork. Assault, that's what it is.’

‘I'm … I'm sorry.’ Ray Tyler hated himself for apologising but knew that there was no other course open to him. He stepped across and retrieved the fork, his hands trembling so much that he could hardly hold it. He was physically and mentally drained, his rage having vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. ‘I … I didn't mean to … to do that.’ His lips quivered so that the words were scarcely coherent.

‘Well yer did it, didn't yer?’ Elsie Walton was helping her husband to his feet. ‘And don't think yer'll get off as lightly as that. You'll 'ear more about this, just you mark my words! Now get out of our garden and take yer fowls wi' yer.’

Ray Tyler looked round. The two trespassing Rhode Islands were squeezing through a gap in the rusted lower wire netting, scurrying back towards the arc. The other ten were already inside the enclosure as though they had reached a unanimous decision that venturing outside was an unnecessary hazard.

Tyler took a deep breath, replaced the arc door and glanced back across the garden. The Waltons had gone indoors. Somehow he doubted Elsie's threat to ring the police. Nevertheless, it had been close. Only Fred Walton's timely stumble had saved his life, Elsie's sudden appearance preventing a ferocious follow-up to the incident.

Christ, what the fuckin hell's up with me? Tyler kicked off his wellingtons and went back into the house. The prospect of gardening had lost its appeal. His head was starting to ache again, a dull thumping like a distant tom-tom that was growing in volume.

Fear. Of himself. A robot whose controls had developed a fault, reacting unpredictably for no apparent reason, on a collision course with disaster.

The telephone in the hall began to ring. He cursed, cupped his hands over his ears, stumbling past it and on up the stairs; into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and flinging himself headlong on to the bed.

Closing his eyes. Trying to shut it all out.

Failing.

Ray Tyler had crouched in the alley for the best part of an hour, sensing the change, strength seeping into his muscles like sap giving new life to a tree in the spring. His clothing was tight, seams threatening to burst at the slightest movement, long toenails tearing his socks and trying to push their way out of his shoes. His brain was clouded, and it was easier to rely on instinct than try to reason. But every sense was alert, no scent or sound escaping him.

A prowling cat tensed and arched its back, then bounded away. Roofs glinted and shone with a silvery glow that destroyed their daytime drabness, a world of endless bricks and mortar that had suddenly taken on a mystic enchantment. And from behind a symmetrical horizon the moon rose and seemed to leer, dispelling the darkness, driving it back into patches of shadow.

And only then did Tyler move, loping with the agility of that cat which had fled, a throaty snarl on his lips, nostrils flared and sniffing the air. He bounded from one patch of shadow to another, glancing up at the moon as though seeking guidance. Down one street and into another, now an urgency to his movements. Once he heard footsteps and froze in a doorway. They stopped, something rattled and he heard the slamming of a door. A grunt of frustration escaped him. Prey had eluded him and he felt his anger rising, a bestial fury that came from being deprived of an easy kill.

Moving more cautiously now, checking a low howl that rose in his hot dry throat, because stealth was paramount. Then stopping, rearing up on hind legs to sniff the night air, a sudden joyous realisation that this hunt was not going to prove fruitless. For the creature that was Ray Tyler smelled fresh blood!

He broke into a canter, heedless of the shadows now, crossing stretches of moonlit street in an urgency to satisfy the terrible hunger that raged within, a craving which he knew would prove insatiable until daylight finally crept over the land with its grey sobering strength-sapping force.

He paused before a high stone wall, the aroma now much stronger; mingling with an odour of putrefaction. Nauseating, yet appetising to one who craved its sustenance.

The wall was ten feet high, a jagged battlement of broken glass embedded in concrete designed to keep out intruders. Tyler did not hesitate; one more glance at the silvery orb in the sky above, acknowledging its ethereal smile of assurance, and then his powerful legs tensed like a coiled spring. One powerful leap took him to the top, claw-like fingers securing a hold and taking the weight of his bulky body with ease, pulling himself up, staring down at what lay beneath him, impervious to the cuts and abrasions on hands and feet.

He saw piles of animal skins stacked in the corner of the spacious yard, cow hides in various stages of decomposition, maggots dripping to the floor and forming wriggling puddles of revulsion. His eyes moved on, saw the big shed with a corrugated tin roof, and it was from within this building that the odour of fresh meat and blood came.

He sprang into the air, alighted nimbly, instantly breaking into a shambling gait, reached the large wooden door. A snarl of anger and frustration; a huge padlock barred his entry. Again came the rage and with it that terrible strength, brutish fingers seized the clasp and tearing it from the woodwork, the door creaking and swinging open.

Tyler crouched there surveying the interior of the oblong-shaped building, the moonlight shafting in through the doorway. He gasped, saliva flowing from his mouth and trickling down his hairy face. Carcases hung from hooks on either wall, a line of skinned pigs, sheep and cattle, blood dripping from them into a concrete gutter and forming a sluggish crimson river. He moved inside. An abattoir, but his brain did not reason why or how, simply that there was food for the taking, a banquet of unbelievable splendour.

Rushing forward, tearing voraciously at the nearest corpse, fangs and claws ripping the red meat away in strips and chunks, stuffing them into the gaping mouth until there was barely room to munch, squelching and slobbering blood in blind carnage.

One body was not enough, a child confronted with an array of sweets and licence to eat its fill. Pigs that had been bled had their throats gashed yet again, limbs broken off and cast to one side because there was no time to gnaw the sweet bones.

A race against time, the moon sliding through the sky and lengthening the shadows inside the building, dawn threatening with a grey streak in the eastern sky. The beast turned, bayed its anguish and knocked against a steel bin that rattled. Curiosity prevailed, the lid was tipped off and bowled noisily across the flagged floor like a child's hoop until it came to rest in the river of blood. Claws delved into the interior, came up with a morass of offal, entrails that had to be dragged free and eaten like spaghetti. Slurping and grunting, a full stomach that rejected unwanted bilge, throwing it back with force.

Tyler vomited a stream of foul spew, clutched at the bin for support, felt his strength beginning to wane, a weakening of the muscles in arms and legs, dizziness … realisation and flight!

Outside again, the sky paling, outlining the surrounding wall, its top a jagged silhouette. Leaping, falling back, leaping again. Somehow making it in the end, lying along the top and bracing himself for the fall on the other side, spewing once more as though in self-contempt. Then the hard pavement came up to meet him with bone-shattering force, rolling him on to a drain grid where he lay on his back and watched the dawn come to mock him.

Empty streets, a time of desolation when it is neither day or night, the hopelessness of reality when one tries to forget because remembering is painful. A throbbing headache, limbs stretched to the point of exhaustion, he staggered along, dodging back into a doorway when he heard the whine of an electric milk cart and emerging again when it had passed on.

His clothing was ruined, stinking of vomit that almost had him throwing up again, a creature of the night crawling back to its lair.

And worst of all was the inability of his brain to record the night's events and present them in logical sequence. Just a blankness; nothing. Except the fear of not knowing!

Chapter FIVE

Pat Davidson was tall and slim, perhaps just that bit too slim so that she had a lanky appearance, an inch or two taller than she really was. Freckles, short dark hair. It was her hazel eyes which men noticed first. Her husband, Ron, had married her because of her eyes, although lately, from his point of view, they seemed to have lost their sparkle.

Those eyes said it all; relieved her of the necessity for unnecessary conversation amongst the male residents of the Mildenhall estate. The women hated her, some more than others. A few had good reason, for others it was only gossip. In less than two years Pat Davidson had established a ‘reputation’ for herself. And secretly she basked in it.

During long days of boredom whilst Ron was away in various parts of the country, attempting to persuade gullible buyers to order a variety of imported foreign goods, she spent lengthy periods upstairs in the bedroom. In between doing other things she kept a watchful eye on that part of the estate which her radius of vision afforded her. That morning she had seen Lillian Tyler set off towards the bus stop unable to hold back a sudden deluge of tears. Ray had returned a short time beforehand. Now that in itself was unusual. It all added up to domestic strife at number eighty-seven, she decided, not without a sense of satisfaction.

Then she'd followed Ray Tyler's clash with the Waltons. Pat had watched breathlessly, forgetting herself and emerging from her usual observation post some distance from the window where she was unlikely to be seen. Incredible was the only word to describe it. Of course the Waltons had been asking for trouble for a long time; they should have remained in their tiny terraced house in Kettlebrook Street, and probably would have done so for the rest of their lives had not Fred drawn a lucky premium bond. Now it seemed that they were intent on dragging the Mildenhall status down to their own level of foul-mouthed language and slum behaviour. A classic example of the ‘nouveau riche’

Pat had experienced a surge of excitement as Tyler went into the attack; disappointment when the fork missed its intended target. Elation as the younger man prepared to put the boot in. She could not hold back her groan of dismay when Elsie Walton had appeared on the scene just in time to thwart a second attack. After that the whole business had developed into an anticlimax. It was too far to hear what the parties concerned were saying. Pat Davidson hoped that they hadn't patched up the quarrel; it looked to be the kind that could escalate to very interesting heights. Of course it was all over those silly hens. Really you couldn't blame old Walton (not that she was siding with him), but keeping poultry on Mildenhall was rather eccentric, to say the least.

Funny guy, Ray Tyler, she mused as she slouched downstairs and put on the kettle in the kitchen. Interesting, though. More than that, unpredictable; she liked unpredictable men … in bed! They produced variety. Ron had been that way once. Lately he had become boring; like a lot of other men on this estate. Complacency, that was their trouble. They were too sure of getting what they wanted, how they wanted, any time they wanted.

She made a coffee and thought more about Ray Tyler whilst she drank it. Her intuition seldom failed her. Things were not rosy in the Tyler household. It was a good time to get a man, sort of on the rebound. But she wasn't going to make it as easy as that. Play with him at it, tease him. It was all a game whichever way you looked at it.

Hell, girl, she banged the table with the palm of her hand, you've got to get him in bed first. Would he or wouldn't he, that was the most interesting million dollar question of all? There was only one way to find out. She smiled.

She quavered slightly at the prospect and that made it all the more intriguing. A challenge. It had to be tackled right, though. If it wasn't right first time it would surely fail and might even have repercussions for herself. She went back upstairs, aware that she was trembling slightly, butterflies in her stomach, something which she hadn't experienced for years. In the bedroom again, she approached the window, straining her eyes but keeping well back. Her heart seemed to miss a beat when she spied Ray Tyler slouched on the sofa in his living room. He appeared to be dozing, totally relaxed.

Somewhat uncertainly she went downstairs and paused by the telephone. She picked up the small local directory and found his number, 62309, bending the pages back so that the book stayed open in case she had to refer to it again. She never trusted her memory.

She lifted the receiver, hesitated again. It was difficult; she had only spoken to him once or twice over the hedge. He might take offence. It was a risk she had to take. The longer she left it the harder it would become. A sudden brainwave. She began to dial, her finger shaking.

The phone was ringing at the other end. She moistened her lips, could feel her heart pounding. Christ, he was taking his time. It had looked as though he was asleep but surely the incessant ringing would waken him. Perhaps it was the wrong time to ring. If he was sleeping off a bout of temper then maybe he wouldn't be in any kind of a cooperative mood. Another thing, there was no way of telling how long Mrs Tyler would be away. It didn't look as though she was just going out shopping, not in a state like that. Oh, Christ, hurry up and answer, you stupid bastard!

Three minutes later she dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, ran upstairs again. He was still there all right, hadn't moved an inch. A deep breath and she came to a sudden decision. If the mountain wouldn't come to her …

She swallowed, made an effort to reassert herself as she pressed the doorbell of number eighty-seven. Well, there was nothing really to worry about. It wasn't exactly a come-to-bed invitation, only the way he might take it. There was safety in ambiguity, you could always plead innocence.

She rang again and it crossed her mind that he might be ill … or even dead! Then she sensed rather than saw a downstairs curtain move, heard the door opening.

‘Oh … good morning, Mrs …’ Surprise, trying to remember her surname, blinking in the bright sunlight.

‘Pat.’ She grinned, brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. ‘I'm sorry if I've disturbed you … Ray.’ Hesitating slightly at the use of his first name.

‘Oh, not at all.’ He smiled, seemed to be shaking himself out of some deep reverie. ‘What can I do …?’

‘I … I called because lately I've been intrigued by a book on self-sufficiency I've been reading. In fact I only took it back to the library yesterday.’ She hoped he wouldn't enquire about either author or title. ‘But I had noticed that you were starting to dig up your lawn to grow vegetables and that you'd bought a few hens and …’

Tyler frowned, wondering for a second if this was a trick, some ruse being tried by the objecting residents of the Mildenhall estate. She wasn't the type to involve herself in petty feuds, though. All the same he was suspicious.

‘I … I was wondering if perhaps you'd care to pop round, maybe this evening, because I'm sure it would be helpful to both of us to discuss a mutual interest.’ It sounded rather weak suddenly and she felt herself swallowing.

‘Would you care to come in?’ He held the door wide.

‘Er, no, not right now, thanks, I'm just in the middle of washing. But my husband's away for a few days.’ Damn, it was far from subtle, not a bit how she had intended to put it over.

Tyler thought, I'll bet you've got your knickers off already under that skirt. He gave no sign of his suspicions when he replied. ‘I don't see why not.’ Play it carefully, gifts like this don't arrive on the doorstep every morning. ‘Just depends whether my wife comes back tonight … and if she decides we're going out somewhere.’

‘Fine.’ Pat Davidson's confidence came surging back and she tried to disguise her sigh of relief. ‘If you decide you can make it, shall we say about nine?’

‘OK.’ He nodded, grinned. ‘I may see you later then.’

She stood there for a second or two after the door had closed, a sense of euphoria at the first successful step of her latest conquest. Then she turned away. But don't make it too easy for him, she reminded herself, you're not a whore.

Ray Tyler went upstairs and watched his visitor from the window, the wiggle of her hips and bottom. Like Lillian's in a way. Oh, hell. Forbidden fruit and all that. It was very flattering but he wouldn't be going; too many other things on his mind right now. The swelling erection inside his trousers said otherwise. Well, there was no need to make an immediate decision; ten minutes to nine would be soon enough.

The telephone was ringing again. The bank, without any doubt. It wouldn't be Lillian. She would know only too well that phoning was a waste of time.

He returned to the living room and slammed the door in an attempt to shut the noise in the hall. It muffled it until it finally petered out. With a loud sigh Tyler flung himself full-length on to the settee and closed his eyes. His depression had lifted slightly. Pat Davidson was responsible for that. He wondered what she was like in bed and laughed coarsely to himself.

Probably no bloody good at all. Like that young slut he'd picked up - correction, had picked him up - two or three years ago when he'd gone on that computer course. A waste of a fiver. He could do better any time with his own right hand. All the same, this looked interesting. It would take his mind off all this bloody nonsense that was happening at present. A tune and a snatch of half-forgotten words crossed his mind, something about a bad moon rising. Now why the hell should he suddenly think of that?

The words and music buzzed annoyingly inside his head. And his erection was determined not to be overlooked. Well, it had got a few hours to wait. If he decided to go. He knew only too well that he would. There was no point in trying to kid himself otherwise.

Ray Tyler heard the hens in their sleeping quarters clucking irritably at the disturbance as he eased his way beneath the willow tree. It was preferable to go this way, he thought, through the gap in the hedge and across the Davidson's garden rather than invite gossip by walking round into the next street and up to the front door. It was inevitable that somebody would see him if he went the conventional way.

He brushed his hair back into place and tapped lightly on the back door, standing in a patch of shadow so that he was not visible from the houses all around. A slight feeling of guilt was swamped by the sensations in the lower regions of his body. Then he heard quick footsteps, the door being opened.

‘Hi.’ Pat Davidson stood there, dressed in sweater and jeans. Both garments had shrunk in washing, clinging tightly to her body, accentuating the firmness of her breasts and hips. ‘I had a feeling you might come.’ She laughed and turned back into the house, leaving him to follow.

The first few minutes were tense, both of them sitting on the settee, fidgeting and making forced conversation. But before long there was something in her attitude which began to annoy Ray Tyler. Arrogance, a feeling of forced superiority which she was gradually imparting, the way she glanced at him, a faint smile twitching the corners of her mouth. You know why you're here, I know, so why are we pissing about like this?

‘Are you really interested in self-sufficiency?’ He met her gaze, threw her challenge back at her.

‘Yes.’ He gave her credit for the way she didn't flinch. ‘In a roundabout sort of way.’

‘But you're not so keen that you want to sit here listening to me throwing out three hours of spiel on alternative energy and the such-like.’ A statement not a question.

‘If you were capable of doing that, which I very much doubt. You've only just started yourself, anybody can see that, a small patch of lawn hacked up and …’ Just in time she averted the mention of poultry. In all probability it was a delicate subject with Ray Tyler at the moment.

‘Well’ - he exaggerated a sigh of relief. ‘at least we've established something without a lot of pussyfooting round the proverbial mulberry bush.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Why I've been invited round here tonight.’

‘I just needed company, that's all.’ You're not going upstairs inside five minutes and even when we do it won't be instant screwing. This is something I'm going to enjoy.

‘Male company.’

‘Yes. My husband's away. I get lonely.’

‘But you get bored stiff when he's here.’

‘Like you do with your wife.’

Fencing, with an undercurrent of viciousness.

‘Would you like a drink?’ She stood up, made a deliberate effort not to wiggle her buttocks, and moved across to the sideboard.

‘I'll have a small whisky.’ He noted the half-bottle of Teachers, less than a quarter full and decided not to embarrass her by asking for gin. On the Mildenhall estate the residents usually kept a half-bottle of something for emergencies, medicinal or unexpected callers. They all lived on a shoestring budget, mortgaged up to the hilt and floundering in H.P.

‘Water?’ She poured some of the amber fluid into two tumblers.

‘I like mine neat.’

She returned to the settee with both glasses, handed him one. Maybe she drank hers neat too, he thought. Or perhaps she couldn't be bothered to go back into the kitchen to the taps.

‘As I was saying …’

‘I just need company.’ She raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ His erection was no longer battling with his zip. Suddenly everything seemed to have fallen flat. Maybe it was some kind of sick joke that was on himself or even Pal Davidson indulging in some fantasy which she did not have the courage to put into reality.

‘How long's your husband away?’ One last desperate throw to see if there really was anything doing.

‘The rest of the week. Thank goodness. He's a real pain in the neck when he's at home, lounging about expecting to be waited on hand and foot. Oh, I know he sleeps with other women whilst he's away. Most reps and salesmen do. If you're married to one then you have to accept it.’

Ray watched her carefully, wondering if it was some subtle cue. If it was, it was beyond him. But she was nervous, taking a long swig of whisky then almost crushing the tumbler between her two hands.

‘What about your wife?’ she asked suddenly.

‘What about her?’

‘I'm sorry.’ Pat Davidson's eyes dropped. ‘I shouldn't pry into your business, only … only I find it hard to believe that most couples are faithful to each other. That's what being married to a salesman does for you.’

Ray Tyler smiled wanly. Now she was playing poor little girl lost, looking for sympathy, a shoulder to cry on. Or else it was her mode of approach. ‘Lillian's never been unfaithful to me. At least I don't think so. She's lost interest in sex a lot lately. I suppose it happens to all of us eventually.’

‘Not till you're in your seventies.’ She gave a forced little laugh. ‘And what about you, Ray, have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?’

‘That's a leading question.’ His skin was prickling and he felt his erection starting to come back.

‘Go on, tell me.’ Suddenly she was schoolgirlish, edging closer, slipping her arm through his. ‘I promise I won't tell anybody.’

Christ alive, it'll be all over Mildenhall by this time tomorrow. Although … he pursed his lips … Pat Davidson wasn't renowned as a gossip. Few, if any, of the other housewives on the estate had anything to do with her; they left that to their husbands.

‘Yes.’ He felt as though he might be blushing, like the time as an infant when he'd had a sore penis and had admitted to his mother that he'd been playing with himself, ‘I was unfaithful to Lillian once. I went with a prostitute whilst I was away on a computer course.’

‘There you are then.’ She gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘Even respectable bank clerks do it sometimes. And why not? It's not a crime. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do it if they thought they could get away with it.’

He turned his head, found her face only an inch or so from his own, her eyes boring into his. Her smile faded. ‘Why don't you kiss me, Ray?’ she breathed softly.

He twisted himself round, felt clumsy and awkward, slipped an arm around her and pushed his own lips to meet hers. Her breath was warm and the smell of whisky seemed to make him heady. Her mouth opened inviting his tongue to explore. He closed his eyes, felt the closeness of her body, the way she was starting to rub her breasts against his chest.

Tyler's brain seemed to check like a car engine as a lower gear is engaged for greater power. There was a roaring in his head, pulses racing as the blood pumped round his body. Just like last night! Up until now he had tried not to think about what had happened between Lillian and himself, the animal like ferocity which he had shown towards her, the pleasure which it had given him.

Somehow he managed to squeeze a hand between their pressed bodies, felt an erect nipple inside her sweater and squeezed it. She shuddered and thrust her tongue in search of his own, a long low moan seeming to come from somewhere deep inside her.

His other hand went downwards smoothing over the stretched fabric on a shapely thigh, fingers edging upwards and inwards. Zippered male jeans; a lot of women wore them these days, even Lillian. He fumbled, found the fastener, gripped it between finger and thumb, started to ease it downwards.

It was as though the pulling of that zip triggered off something inside Pat Davidson. Her whole body stiffened, her tongue being jerked away from his own as her hands closed over his, pushing them away.

‘Don't!’ The single word was like a whiplash across his face.

He stared in disbelief. It seemed that those hazel eyes were both mocking and reprimanding him. Her features were flushed, her hair tousled. ‘You're taking things for granted aren't you?’ Her voice was husky, loaded with sex in direct contrast to the way she had just extricated herself from the embrace. ‘I don't mind a guy having a bit of a feel but there is a limit!’

‘Damn you!’ He spat out suddenly, aware that his fingernails were digging sharply into his palms. ‘What the hell d'you expect? You can't turn a bloke on and off like a bloody radio.’

‘If you've turned yourself on’ - her gaze dropped briefly to the bulge in the front of his trousers – ‘then it's all in your own mind. I'll stand for a bit of slap and tickle’ - she paused and ostentatiously made sure that her zip was closed. ‘but you can keep out of there!’

A red haze swam before Ray Tyler's eyes, a mist that blurred his vision, at the same time bringing back memories of Lillian last night; the way she had fought him every inch of the way but in the end been forced to yield. Not just because he was stronger but because he was determined. And as the mist faded that determination returned.

‘You didn't invite me round here to play lovey-dovey on the settee,’ he snarled. ‘You want to fuck as badly as I do, only you're a born cock-teaser. Come on, get 'em off!’

She swallowed and glanced behind her into the hall. Two thoughts crossed her mind: the telephone, escape out into the road. She knew she'd never make either. ‘I think you've got the wrong idea … misunderstood me,’ she said weakly, starting to tremble.

‘Like hell! D'you play these games with all the fellers on the estate who are screwing the arse off you?’

‘That's not true. I've had one or two affairs … more like mild flirtations.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ, come off it!’ He laughed loudly. ‘You'll be telling me next you're a virgin and that your marriage was never consummated.’ His expression hardened. ‘D'you know what I did last night?’

‘I … I've no idea.’

‘I raped a woman!’

She bit on a trembling lip, not replying, but her expression said ‘I don't believe you. Not you!’

‘You think I'm lying, eh?’

‘I never said that.’

‘You don't have to, I can read what you're thinking. Well, let me explain. I raped my wife, taught her a lesson she'll never forget, did everything I've ever fantasised about. It was good, the best ever for me.’

Pat thought, so that's why she left in a state this morning. He's telling the truth. Oh, God!

‘Well?’ He regarded her steadily.

‘Well what?’ It was a silly sort of answer. She glanced out of the corners of her eyes again but there was nowhere to run, not that she'd have stood any chance of making it. Anyway he was between her and the door.

‘Don't be bloody thicker than you really are, woman.’ Tyler's eyes blazed and his head was thrust forward. ‘I'm going to screw you whichever way I have to do it!’

Pat shuddered, thought for one moment that she was going to faint. Perhaps it would have been better to have blacked out and then when she came round it would all have been over. If she came round … his expression, his eyes; in them was reflected bestial ferocity, something that went deeper than lust. It was all her own doing. If she hadn't started playing a teenage game of hard-to-get then they could have enjoyed making love and none of this would have arisen. After all, she had spent a lot of time fantasising about having it with Ray Tyler. Now she had messed it all up, created a dangerous situation. You read about it every week in the dailies. ‘Girl found strangled by her boyfriend.’ In most cases the cause was prick-teasing. You could only go so far; every man had his breaking point. Ray Tyler had reached his.

‘Well?’ He wasn't prepared to wait any longer.

‘OK.’ She nodded, trying to hold back her tears. ‘I'll do what you want. D'you want to go up to the bedroom or …’

‘This is as good a place as any.’ He was already starting to undress, feverishly tugging at his tie.

Within seconds he was naked, grunting with annoyance at the fact that she had only so far managed to remove her sweater. His hand shot out, fingers gripping her bra strap and snapping it with the ease of a perished elastic band, the force of his attack sprawling her back on the settee.

Snarling with rage and frustration he leaped on her, ripping at her waistband with unbelievable strength, tearing the fabric as he dragged her jeans down. Pat Davidson stifled a scream; it would only have served to enrage him further. She closed her eyes, gripped the upholstery with intensity, knowing how it was going to hurt.

This time she was unable to hold back her scream.

Ray Tyler did not trouble to button his shirt as he let himself out of the back door, switching off the light and not even looking back at the sobbing naked figure of Pat Davidson. Christ, he never wanted to see the bitch again. He'd hurt her, all right; frightened himself more than her when he'd got a grip on her throat. Never before had he experienced anything quite like that second climax. As he had orgasmed he'd been obsessed with one thought. Kill! You've had the best out of her, she's no more to give any man, so make sure she doesn't.

He didn't know what had saved her … and himself. Suddenly his throttling grip had relaxed when she was only seconds away from death. Somehow, deep in his crazed mind, civilised man had thwarted the beast. And he'd let her live.

But he had to get out now; before the animal in him took over again. Next time nothing would save her!

He closed the door behind him, breathing heavily and leaning against it for a few seconds. He was sweating; with fear. But physically he was fitter and stronger than ever.

He listened, his hearing tuned to pick up the slightest sound. A prowling cat rustled the leaves somewhere in a shrubbery. Sparrows shifted uneasily in a thick privet hedge; they sensed the presence of a hunter. Otherwise the night was silent, the orange glow of street lamps illuminating the deserted roads and crescents, parked cars casting black squares of shadow.

It must have been later than Tyler had thought. Even the pub was silent, not so much as a late drinker staggering from a side door. After midnight certainly. It was only as he made his way down the small garden in search of the gap in the hedgerow by which he had entered that a terrible realisation hit him. He stifled a cry of fear. It was the orange floodlighting which had fooled him at first but now that he was away from the nearest standard he saw that a pale silver glow infiltrated, bathing this tiny patch of suburbia in an eerie silvery yellow. He tried not to look up into the night sky, attempted to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the ground but slowly his head was drawn upwards, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, lips drawn back in a snarl of fear. Cringing. Whining.

The full moon was past its zenith, already morning-bound, a huge silver eye that drew his gaze and held it. He whimpered, broke into a run. Nowhere could he escape its power yet still he fled; saw the silhouette of the hole in the straggling privet and dropped to his knees to crawl through it. Branches scratched his face but the lacerations went unheeded.

Flee! Hide!

Running. Whimpering. Running? He was almost at his own back door before he was aware that he was still on his hands and knees. Bounding!

The scream left his throat in one long howl that escalated and hung in the still air. Something moved again, a fast patter of tiny feet. He glimpsed the cat as it jumped the small fence in one bound, a terrified animal with ears pressed back on its head. Hens fluttered and clucked in alarm within the confines of their tiny house.

All around dogs were barking. Somewhere a window was flung open and an irate man bawled abuse. Further away still a woman was cursing profanely. And still the dogs barked and howled.

When dogs how!, death is nigh (legend).

Tyler tried to stand upright but could not keep his balance. Three times he attempted it and on each occasion he fell to the ground. Panicking he started to rake at the door. Paint flaked off, some wedging beneath his fingernails.

Then he saw the handle above him and swiped at it. Twice he connected and twice it sprung back into position; the third time he managed to depress it and as the door swung back he fell into the kitchen.

For some minutes he lay prostrate on the floor bathing himself gratefully in the cool dark shadow of the north-facing room. Yet still the power throbbed through his veins, an inexplicable calling which could not be denied. He felt his lust growing again, the craving for human flesh bringing back a fleeting memory of that night on the car park, the softness of the youth's throat, its sweet taste …

He shot out a leg, managed to connect with the door and it slammed shut. A loud sight of relief, but he knew it was far from over. There were several hours to be endured before the dawn would pale the moonlight, weakening its powers.

He made for the stairs, still crawling, dragging himself up a step at a time. Once he slipped back and snarled with rage. Up on to the landing, scrambling for the open doorway of the main bedroom, pulses racing at what he might find there.

A snarl of mingled relief and frustration. Frustration because the moonbeams flooding the room revealed the bed still neatly made and empty; no mate with which to satisfy his overpowering urge. Lillian had not returned. Relief because this time he would have killed his wife, savaged her beyond comprehension in his quest for carnal fulfilment.

His search for fulfilment would have been different this time, though, had she been there in the bedroom. No longer did the urge to mate obsess him. Instead … oh, God, he could almost feel the tenderness of her naked flesh, the sweet smell of her body, his sharp fangs sinking in to it, pulling, tearing, biting! The sweet sour smell of fresh blood making him heady, quenching a burning thirst and gnawing hunger. Her screams would be like a symphony in his ears, her convulsions in harmony with his rampant munching.

Nothing else would satisfy him, devouring her whilst she still lived, savouring the carnage when her heart had ceased to pump the life-giving scarlet fluid into his cavernous jaws. Ripping her limb from limb, tossing away the bones and reaching for more, a frenzied banquet that would only end when there was nothing left to feast upon.

He stood there trembling, a glutton who had sneaked into the larder with watering mouth only to find it empty, suddenly aware of the futility of his nocturnal hunt for food, a sense of guilt flooding over him at the prospect of discovery, his hunger seemed to evaporate with it.

Finally fear; stark terror that drove him to hide in the cramped airing cupboard, dragging the door shut after him, labouring for breath in the stifling atmosphere. Cowering in the pitch blackness. Praying that he might die. Knowing that he would live because the power which controlled him would protect him for its own explicable reasons.

He screamed again, a sound which was trapped within the confines of his prison, reverberating in his brain. Fearfully he rubbed at the roughness of his skin, trying to will it smooth again. And failed.

Within the hour he was resigned to his fate and with this acceptance came memories of Lillian. And Pat Davidson. His urge for further satisfaction, the ultimate, would have driven him back to the latter but some instinct warned him that the moonlight was short-lived. He could almost feel the cold dampness of a mortal day penetrating his bones, weakening him.

But his lust was slow to die. Ignoring the roughness of his fingers he set about satisfying himself in the only way he knew how.

Then he slept because it was day, his subconscious haunted by dreams of night. For daylight was but a temporary respite.

Chapter SIX

The feeling that he was suffocating had Ray Tyler struggling back to wakefulness, forcing open the door of the airing cupboard and rolling out on to the landing. Only then, dazzled by a single blinding sunbeam that flooded the tiny landing, did everything come back to him.

First the tears, uncontrollable, destroying any minute spark of morale which might still have smouldered inside him. Then the fear, more terrible than ever before. He stared with almost disbelief at his soiled and torn clothing, his shirt split beneath the arms as though his body had grown to gigantic proportions. There were traces of dried blood on the material. Beneath his fingernails the paint which he had scratched from the back door; he did not need to go and examine the scratches on the woodwork in order to convince himself. He knew.

It had all happened; every detail came flooding back to him with the exception of that period of time from when he had gained entrance to his own house to the moment of waking in the suffocating atmosphere of the airing cupboard. That remained blank, just as his memory had blotted out during the time when he was within the confines of the recreation park on the previous night.

And then he understood, knew why his brain failed to retain a record of happenings from when he dropped on to all-fours until he walked upright again. Because for that duration he was no longer human; he was an animal a werewolf!

He lay on the carpeted floor of the landing, head resting on folded arms and yielded to the sobs which shook his body. It lasted for maybe ten minutes, at the end of which it seemed that he had got it out of his system, for the time being anyway.

Shakily Tyler rose to his feet, clutching the stair rail as he made his way downstairs. Each step was an effort, tired limbs that had had every vestige of strength drained from them. His head ached but he thought that maybe black coffee and a couple of aspirins would clear it. Whilst he was waiting for the kettle to boil he opened the back door and stood looking across at the rear of the Davidson's house.

The bedroom curtains were drawn and there was no sign of life. To all outward appearances it seemed that Pat was sleeping off her night of violent rape. That was a good omen, anyway. He heard the kettle starting to boil and came back indoors. At least the place wasn't buzzing with police. His foremost fear was that she would lodge a complaint, one that might have serious consequences for himself. The signs were that she wasn't going to … yet! There were some pretty fearful bites and bruises on her body, ones that she would hardly be able to conceal from her husband when he returned at the end of the week. She wasn't the type to come up with a plausible explanation. Her fabrications were almost childish, like the story about wanting to discuss self-sufficiency with him. She was a treacherous bitch whose lies were always liable to land her in trouble. And she wasn't all that hot either when eventually she got her knickers off and opened her legs, Tyler reflected with grim amusement as he sipped scalding coffee. Not much better than that young tart he'd screwed. Ironically Lillian had provided him with his biggest sexual thrills and yet his primordial urge led him in search of whores and sleep-arounds. A sort of rutting season in which his basic instincts forced him to participate.

His mood changed again, a surge of near euphoria, his feeling of eroticism plummeting to the depths of another depression. His troubles were building up. Ron Davidson was the type to call the police once he found out that his wife had been raped. A dapper suave smooth-talking bastard, the type that was politely referred to as a ‘ladies' man’; which meant literally that he screwed everything that was available from chambermaids to executives' private secretaries. A glib veneer that masked basic animal instincts. Tyler laughed loudly to himself. A more sophisticated strain of werewolf, sex without violence.

Ray Tyler finished his coffee and sank down with his head in his hands. The police could pick him up for a number of things if they had the evidence. It was all in the lap of the gods, depending upon who squealed. Possibly Lillian and the bank were his most urgent worries. Doubtless his wife was remaining at her mother's because of his violent assault on her. That could be patched up - he hoped. However, he had to make a decision about the bank soon. Their repeated telephone calls having failed they would surely send somebody to call upon him. You could only hide behind locked doors for so long. Nowhere was there a permanent refuge.

Tyler contemplated mailing them his resignation. As with almost every other phase of life money dictated one's decision. He wasn't in a position to embark upon a life of self-sufficiency yet. The bank mortgage would have to be paid off and no building society would take it on without proof of regular earnings. If the house was sold then money had to be found to buy an alternative dwelling. There was no possible chance of finding the cash. Lillian wouldn't be prepared to fight for survival with her back to the wall. So everything reverted to the need for a bank salary; or at least a salary of some kind and alternative employment wasn't easily come by in this age of widespread unemployment. Particularly when one had no qualifications.

They might sack him of course. In which case he would be able to draw dole money. If he resigned voluntarily it was unlikely that the State would give him a free handout, not willingly anyway. He needed to know what punishment the bank had in store for him. If he could only prove that Henshaw had struck him first. Well he bloody well had! But the banking hierarchy would stand by one of their managers. Managers were seldom in the wrong.

Tyler sighed. Things were black and becoming blacker by the hour. If only he could rid himself of this werewolf curse maybe he would stand a chance. Each night his troubles mounted. Somehow he had to prevent the change from man to beast from taking place and then perhaps he would stand a chance of reverting to normal life. And there was only one place to search for the cure … he would have to peruse that damned book again!

He slunk back into the living room, stood looking at the volume almost in awe. Somehow it seemed to stand out of the row of more modern and gaudily jacketed volumes; power, a ruler looking down on its subjects in contempt.

Tyler reached out for it, aware how his hand shook. He recognised his own fear, realising more than ever the need to find a cure for his illness. He could not understand how he had contracted the disease in the first place. Certainly he had not been bitten by any dog. A thought crossed his mind that maybe it had come with the poultry. No, that was ludicrous.

He took the book across to the table and began to flick through the pages until he came to the relevant chapter. This time he intended to read it more thoroughly.

‘The werewolf is the ultimate in evil and depravity.’ He had to strain his eyes in order to read the small print. ‘A legendary creature which dates back to time immemorial although the word ‘werewolf’ is Anglo-Saxon. Many countries throughout the world have their were-creatures. India has its were-tigers, Africa its were-lions and were-crocodiles although the origins of the legends are not known.

‘A werewolf is a creature which is half-man, half-wolf, the strength and cunning of the animal taking over from the logic of the human being during the period of the full moon.’ Well, that figured. It had happened twice to himself. ‘A person may live an otherwise normal life but during that terrible week of each month he reverts to the sub-human, the bloodlust uppermost as he ravages his victims mercilessly.’

Tyler was sweating as he scanned two or three more paragraphs which he had read previously. He was a werewolf, all right, but how the hell had it happened? More important, what was the cure?

‘The moon is the key to the existence of this terrible creature. Without it he is powerless. Once it begins to wane, and dawn breaks, he reverts to human form, slinking home, tortured by guilt and remorse at his nocturnal ravages. He is fully aware of everything that has happened …’ Ray Tyler frowned. There were some gaps in his own experiences. He wondered if he suffered from bouts of amnesia during the change, or … and his stomach seemed to tie itself in knots at the thought … he was only in the early stages of the disease and worse was to come as it ravaged his body and brain!

‘The werewolf can be identified even when in human form. Those afflicted with the curse are reputed to have the third finger of each hand longer than the others …’

Tyler placed his hands flat on the table, hands that were soft and smooth from a life of office work. Yet as a child his mother had chided him about them almost to the point of inducing a complex. ‘They're stubby,’ she used to sneer, ‘they remind me of a mole's feet.’ He'd hated her for that; she'd never really wanted him in the first place. Once she'd yelled in anger at him that he'd been an unfortunate accident that they were perpetually paying the price for. ‘Take my tip and if you're ever unlucky enough to get married don't have any children.’ In a way it was a kind of curse. If she'd had any powers then maybe she'd used them on Dillon. The thought made him angry, almost distracting him from his minute examination of his hands. Almost, but not quite.

It was difficult. His mother's jibes had had some semblance of truth in them. The four fingers on either hand were almost of identical length, the second and little ones equal to the all-important third digit. It was difficult to tell which ones, if any, were marginally shorter or longer.

He scraped his chair back and hastened upstairs to find Lillian's workbox. The interior of the wicker basket was an untidy jumble of reels of cotton, thimbles, needle cases. Jesus, she was an untidy bitch! Then he located the object of his search - her tape measure. It was unravelled and twisted; he cursed aloud as he straightened it out, crossed to the window and began to measure his hands. First finger, 3½ inches … second, 3¾, just over … third 3½ … fractionally more … The other hand measured more or less the same, but most frightening was that the third finger was about one tenth of an inch longer than the others.

He dropped the tape measure back into the box, stared out of the window, tried to find an argument, a reason. Misshapen hands. According to that bloody book it was conclusive proof that he was a werewolf – not that he needed proof. Just a cure.

It was an effort to go back downstairs and start reading again. But he knew he had to, his quest for knowledge more desperate than ever now.

‘… the sadistic side of the sexual instinct is the dominant force. Some legends refer to a person making a pact with the devil and in return receiving abnormal strength. One who has traded his soul for power is granted his wish in the most terrible way possible.’

Well he certainly hadn't made a pact with the devil. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that his condition had something to do with his mother. The curse of the unwanted child, he was being made to suffer for having the audacity to be born.

He began to read faster, frantic to find some kind of an antidote.

‘A werewolf can be destroyed by a bullet moulded out of silver.’ Suicide, he didn't want to have to resort to that although it might have to be considered if all else failed.

‘It is also a well-known fact that a werewolf cannot cross running water. Should one chance to fall into a stream or river then its end is assured. A person known to be a werewolf but who dies from natural causes whilst in human form must have a wooden stake driven through his heart to prevent him from, becoming a vampire after death.’

Now we're really getting ridiculous, he thought. Skip the crap and get down to facts. I'm not interested in how to kill myself. I just want to get back to normal. His hopes were dwindling.

‘The change back to human form is rapid, the deformations reverting to normal within a few minutes. He returns to his bed and prays that it will not happen again. But the curse grows stronger as the next full moon rises …’

Almost panicking Ray Tyler flicked over the remaining page. A chapter on the curing of fleeces. Jesus Christ! Realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow.

There was no cure! He was condemned to remain a werewolf for the remainder of his life! And if the legend ran true to form worse was to follow after death. That was nonsense, though. Everybody had seen all this ‘undead’ crap on telly until they were heartily sick of it. True, but then who would believe in werewolves? The odd nutter. Like himself.

He closed the book, wanted more than ever to destroy it now that he had digested that terrible section, discovered that there was no escape for him. One further reason for concern, not wholly impossible. In fact, more probable than all the other theories. The book itself carried the curse! Had not this chapter of terror begun on the very day when he first purchased the volume? Had not all his efforts to destroy it been thwarted? A book without a title, its printing history conveniently erased by somebody … or something!

Instinctively he backed away from it, certain that he had hit on the right answer at last. In which case it must be totally destroyed by some means and hopefully then the curse would be lifted. Without delay; he would try a bonfire out in the garden, use all those empty cardboard boxes out of the third bedroom, that pile of newspapers which had been in the porch for over a week awaiting collection by the boy scouts; any twigs and rubbish he could find lying about in the garden. A blaze that would equal any of the fires last November 5th which had turned the Mildenhall estate into a choking area of smoke hazard. It wasn't the kids' fault. It was their parents, a legal means by which you could smoke out your neighbour if you didn't like him, spoil all the new paintwork on his house. The Waltons crossed Ray's mind and he made a mental note that it would be one way of making life uncomfortable for them, not that the smoke and smuts would make much difference to their dowdy exterior decorations.

Anyway, that book was destined for instant cremation. It seemed that an instant burden had been lifted from his shoulders, the simplest and only means of release for his mind and body … provided the task could be accomplished this time! So simple that the truth had eluded him for so long.

Tyler almost ran for the stairs, determined to gather his bonfire material from the lumber room immediately, an overall feeling of euphoria dispelling his deep depression. In his mind he saw the fire, six-foot high leaping flames, smoke spiralling up into the still atmosphere, charred paper floating and falling like black snowflakes, some of them from that devilish book; consumed by fire in the manner that witches were destroyed in the Middle Ages. He would leap and dance around the blaze, oblivious of any spectators. Fuck the Waltons! He'd …

The doorbell checked him in mid-stride on the third stair, shock coursing through his whole body, causing a tiny shiver to travel slowly up his spine.

He turned, saw the outline of a man standing in the storm porch, a faceless caller who saw him also through the opaque glass and gave another decisive ring on the bell as though he guessed Tyler's intention to dash upstairs and leave the door unanswered.

Slowly, reluctantly, Ray Tyler retraced his steps, a sense of foreboding swamping that euphoria. It had to be somebody from the bank; furthermore he had to face them sometime and he'd already resigned himself to a showdown. Even though the frosted glass masked the other's features he knew it was neither Henshaw nor Brownleigh; not fat enough nor skinny enough; the posture was wrong too.

Ray Tyler turned the Yale catch and opened the door about six inches. The man who stood on the threshold reminded him of a meter reader who had forsaken his uniform for civvies. Dowdy, suit off the peg from one of the multiple shops of Joe Public's tailors. Expressionless, doing a job because he had to feed his family and heat his council semi, regardless of what duties it entailed. Scuffed brown shoes, a cheap briefcase which was splitting at the seams. Tyler almost stepped back and said, ‘The meter's in the cupboard under the stairs but you'll have to move the vacuum cleaner to get at it.’

‘Mr Tyler, I presume.’ A harsh accent that had been cultivated at some time for some reason, possibly in an attempt to create an attitude of authority.

‘Yes … that's me.’ Perplexity.

‘My name's Gadwall, Personnel Officer of your bank.’ No hand was proffered as the stranger stepped into the hall without being invited to do so. After all, the bank owned the house, they had the deeds mortgaged to them. ‘We were trying to telephone you all day yesterday … without result. Perhaps your bell needs attention.’ Deliberate sarcasm.

Tyler thought, you stupid prick. He felt himself starting to tremble and hoped it didn't show. This was officialdom's stock in trade, catching you off-balance. Don't blame me, Mr Tyler. It's the bank who sent me. I can quite appreciate your point of view but, there again, it isn't up to me. I'm afraid I've got a duty to carry out. Fuck him and the bank!

‘I was ill,’ Tyler replied and wished instead he'd said, ‘I wasn't answering the phone because I knew it was one of you bastards.’

‘I'm afraid this could be a lengthy interview. Could we sit down somewhere?’

Ray almost took him through into the living room and then he remembered the book still on the table. Nobody was going near that, not even himself, until the bonfire was blazing in readiness to receive its sacrifice.

‘No, I'm afraid not,’ Tyler answered abruptly, this intrusion beginning to anger him. ‘There isn't anywhere. We'll have to talk here.’

‘Very well.’ The other set his briefcase down on the floor, struggled with the damaged zip, finally making it slide. ‘You'd better look at this first.’ He handed over a folded sheet of notepaper.

Tyler opened it up, saw the signature at the foot of the page first, indecipherable, but typed beneath it were the word. ‘Staff Manager, Head Office.’ He skimmed over the lengthy paragraphs, picking out sentences and part sentences: ‘… with Mr George Henshaw … after careful consideration … suspended on full pay pending a full enquiry … you are requested to report daily to your branch during this time and to sign the attendance register … a decision will be made as quickly as possible based upon the findings of …’

‘I see.’ Tight-lipped he refolded the letter and held it out at arm's length.

‘It's addressed to you.’ A hint of cynicism from Gadwall.

‘There's nothing more to discuss then.’

‘I'm afraid there is. We shall want a full written statement from yourself, signed, and witnessed by myself. That is the purpose of my visit.’

‘There's nothing to tell.’ Tyler felt despair closing in on him. ‘Henshaw hit me. I hit him back.’

‘That's not for me to decide. Now, if I could have something on which to write …’

Ray Tyler sighed. It looked as if they would have to go into the living room after all. Gadwall should have joined the police force, he'd have made it as far as the paperwork was concerned. Veiled maliciousness, a sense of power. ‘We'd better go through here.’ He moved through the doorway leaving the personnel officer to pick up his briefcase and follow.

The book was still lying there on the table; Tyler had half expected to find it missing, secreting itself away somewhere and foiling his incineration plans. Gingerly he pushed it to one side. It seemed to dominate the scene, distracting him, disturbing his concentration to such an extent that his visitor was already seated with notepad and fountain pen at the ready before he realised it.

‘Now, Mr Tyler.’ A flat expressionless voice, an attempt to create an unbiased attitude - and failing. ‘Perhaps you would care to tell me in your own words exactly what happened on Tuesday morning. Take your time, I've got to write it all down.’

Yes, you should've been a fucking copper, Tyler decided. Take your time. Jesus Christ, man, I'm in a hurry; got to get that book burned before it's too late … before something else happens …

‘Now.’ Gadwall tested his nib on the cover of his pad. ‘Why did you go into Mr Henshaw's office in the first place?’

‘Because the bloody fool can't read a computer printout properly …’

‘Come now, Mr Tyler, that's no way to …’

‘It's bloody well true. He'd made a balls-up, made himself look a right fool and when I explained to him …’

‘Mr Henshaw's integrity and suitability as a branch manager are first class. An impeccable record …’

The pawns defending their own hierarchy. Tyler felt himself starting to become angry. ‘Oh, yeah, and what about all the complaints that the staff have made about him to your department?’

‘I beg your pardon, nobody has lodged any complaint against Mr Henshaw.’

‘And you're a fuckin' liar!’

‘Mr Tyler! I will not stand for such language.’

‘You'll stand for it or else you can get out now. This’ - Tyler rapped the table with his knuckles - ‘is my house. And I'm the boss here. There have been complaints about Henshaw. Miss Barlow made one last time your regional officer interviewed the staff. So did Mrs Wallace. And young Rutter; he left because of Henshaw and got himself a better job and another fortnight's holiday a year into the bargain. What's been done about all these complaints then? Don't bother to answer because I'll tell you. Anybody at the bank would tell you. They haven't even been put on file. Dismissed out of hand because everybody, including yourself, is shit-scared of Henshaw.’

‘Look.’ Gadwall paled slightly, held up a hand. ‘I don't know anything about what you've just said but if it makes you any easier I'll mention it to my boss when I get back to the office.’

‘I'm wasting my time.’ Tyler swivelled round in his chair and stared deliberately out of the window. He saw Fred Walton in the garden next door but it did not even register through his haze of anger. ‘You won't pass it on because you're as spineless as the rest of them!’

‘This statement.’ Gadwall was already writing on his pad. ‘You were called into Mr Henshaw's office to … to discuss a matter relating to banking and as a result …’

‘… and as a result he flew into a rage and hit me across the face so I struck him back.’

‘And as a result’ - the personnel officer was writing rapidly, talking aloud as he did so. ‘an argument ensued in which blows were struck. There were no witnesses present and …’

Tyler turned back towards the table a few minutes later and taking the proffered pen scrawled his signature at the bottom of the statement without even bothering to read it. ‘That's that, then. I hope you're satisfied.’

‘I'm satisfied that I have taken down the statement correctly as you told me.’ Gadwall had to tug on the zip of his briefcase and only managed to close it after a struggle. ‘In the meantime you are suspended on full pay and must report …’

‘I can read. And don't go losing any sleep over me.’

‘I won't, I can assure you. Oh, and by the way, if you take my advice you'll answer all telephone calls or doorbells. It might just be in your own interests.’

‘I'll make my own decisions on that.’ Tyler opened the front door, felt like giving his departing visitor a push down the step.

‘Good day to you, Mr Tyler.’

Tyler slammed the door, felt the glass vibrate. He drew his fingers across his forehead. He was sweating and that infuriated him. A bastard like that wasn't going to worry him. But he had. And right now there were more important matters to be attended to. That book …

He almost ran back into the living room, could not hold back a loud exclamation of relief when he saw that it still lay where Gadwall had pushed it to one side. Christ, it couldn't have gone anywhere. Unless Gadwall had nicked it. He wasn't the sort, not where self-sufficiency books were concerned, certainly. Maybe the odd sleight of hand in a branch, help himself to a tenner out of a junior cashier's till during the course of a visit, then put the discrepancy on the kid's record as a black mark against him. Of course, Mr Henshaw, we can't really prove that Dobson actually stole the money. Bloody creep!

Tyler glanced furtively at the front door as he went back upstairs but this time there was no unexpected caller to delay him. He was breathing heavily when he reached the landing. Not just out of condition. Scared, scared to hell! He went into the small bedroom which was heaped with all sorts of lumber. Cardboard boxes, a couple of chairs that had been relegated from regular use but might come in handy one day, a couple of cartons of paperbacks which he had stopped Lillian from sending to a jumble sale. Come to think of it, what was Lillian playing at? She'd surely come home today or if not then she'd ring. Unless she thought he still wasn't answering the telephone. Anyway, he didn't want her back … yet. Just give me half an hour; everything will be all right then.

He began scooping up an armful of boxes, found one that was filled with wood shavings. It'd burn well. Thinking about Lillian again and, heaven forbid, her mother! A right old bat, to put it bluntly, a typical mother-in-law. No guy was quite good enough for her Lil. Certainly not Ray Tyler. She thought sex was dirty too. You only had it when you wanted to start a family; shut your eyes Lil and think of England or think of something, not sex. But you won't need to have it any more, will you, because you're not having any more family? Refuse him and he'll soon get tired of asking. Like your dad did. Men don't really need it. It's all in the mind, you just have to stop them pestering. Don't you give way, Lil.

Christ, the old girl'd have a seizure if she found out her daughter had been raped. Tyler grinned, half hoped Lillian had told her mother. But she wouldn't; that was one thing she wouldn't gossip about. She'd be too embarrassed. Not like that Davidson bitch; she was the kind who wouldn't turn a hair at showing off a few love bites and bruises on the insides of her thighs. Brazen, but all a big bluff really.

He made his way back downstairs, spilled a couple of boxes which bounced on ahead of him and hit the front door. A glance back into the living room; the book was still there. Hell, it wasn't likely to get up and walk. Lately, though, anything might happen; it had been happening.

Out into the garden. He made for that patch of lawn he'd dug up recently; ash was supposed to be beneficial to soil. There was a strong breeze. It whipped up a newspaper, hurled it across the garden and spread it across the wire netting fence. Fred Walton straightened up on the other side, glowered, looked away again. Elsie was busily hanging out washing. She appeared not to be aware of Tyler's presence. A sudden thought struck him and he almost laughed out aloud; once the fire got going the wind would take the smoke right on to the washing. Sadistically he counted the items of clothing on the line. Twenty-three. Including, he allowed himself a snigger, a pair of wide pink bloomers. He'd always thought Elsie Walton was the type to wear them.

Damn the wind! He had to weigh sheets of crumpled newspaper down with stones, scurried off to find some broken twigs and dead branches from beneath the willow tree, worried all the time lest his bonfire makings would blow away. Twelve hens watched him curiously.

A miniature pyramid. He almost stood and gloated but there was no time to be lost. Get the book. And some matches. Oh, Christ, now that he'd given up smoking he didn't have his usual box of Swan in his pocket. He searched the kitchen frantically, scrabbling through drawers in the sink unit; a grunt of satisfaction turning to abuse directed at the absent Lillian as he found a large box of household matches only to discover that it was empty. Fuck the woman, he flung it at the wall in a burst of uncontrollable temper.

He'd have to go down the road to the tiny supermarket round the corner. A quick peep to ensure that the book was still there (he contemplated taking it with him but decided that it was definitely a talisman of ill-fortune and a thousand and one misfortunes could befall him before he got back), out of the front door leaving the catch up. He'd only be a couple of minutes.

Trying not to sprint, heads turned curiously in his direction, panting by the time he reached the store. Frustration again. A queue at the till, housewives with dusters tied over their curling pins wasting time gossiping. Mrs Cawthorne had run out of change and couldn't change any more notes until her husband came down with a bag of small from the safe. Waiting, all churned up inside, feeling a bit sick.

Damn it, Harry Cawthorne wasn't in any hurry either. Now he was gossiping. Tyler almost screamed. ‘For fuck's sake I only want a box of matches!’ He knew it wouldn't have done any good. People had heart attacks in situations like this. The experts reckoned it was far better to blow your top. Not this time, though.

Outside again at last, yielding to the temptation to break into a run. The cards were stacked against him this morning; he'd forgotten his wallet. Mavis Cawthorne had put it on the slate and raised an eyebrow. ‘Desperate for a fag are you, Mr Tyler?’ A few titters from those silly bags in their shuffling slippers.

Back at number eighty-seven, almost too good to believe. Dashing straight through to the living room, seizing the book as though it was red hot. It soon would be!

Fuck it, the bonfire stacking had blown over in the wind and there was a trail of newspapers across the lawn. Some more were caught up in the fence, a couple had blown through into the garden next door. There was no sign of the Waltons. They appeared to have gone indoors. He breathed a sigh of relief. There was no time for petty squabbles right now.

Trying to pile the stuff up again and get it to stay put. Difficult, especially when you were clutching a book in your left hand. At last! Sweating hard, striking a match, the wind extinguishing it immediately. Cursing. Get it alight before it blows over.

The fifth match ignited the nearest piece of newspaper before it went out. A tiny flame, growing, spreading as the wind fanned it.

Tyler knelt there almost hypnotised by the orange tongues of flame that were starting to get a hold. Only then did he remember the book. He'd almost forgotten it … some strange trick the power which emanated from it was playing on his mind. Get rid of it before something else goes wrong.

He straightened up, held it out at arm's length (it seemed to stick to his fingers) above the flames and dropped it into a carton perched on the very peak of the bonfire.

Done it! Oh, God, I've done it at last!

He could have moved back a few paces and remained there safely until the fire had burned out. Some instinct urged him to go inside and watch from behind a window. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was because flakes of burnt paper were already settling on the Waltons' washing.

It made no difference, anyway, from where he watched. The end result would be the same: a heap of unrecognisable ash which he would then rake into the soil. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He smiled grimly. He could feel the heat of the fire on his back, heard it roaring as it consumed the paper and cardboard, boxes settling lower as those beneath them were burned away.

He was almost at the house when he heard the shout, angry abuse that could be directed at none other than himself.

‘Oi, are yer bleedin' mad? What the fuckin' 'ell's the idea o' this?’

Tyler whirled, just in time to see Fred Walton, his features twisted into a mask of fury, clambering over the small fence, a plastic bucket of water held chest high, barely keeping his balance as he staggered towards the blazing pyre.

Almost before understanding of what the other was about to do dawned on him, something snapped inside Ray Tyler's brain. With a roar of rage he broke into a run, a red mist shimmering before his eyes.

Chapter SEVEN

The bucket went up and then forward, Fred Walton almost falling headlong as he threw the contents at the roaring flames, staggering and just managing to remain upright. The blaze checked, hissed. A cloud of paper ash flew into the air. And then the fire roared back again like an angry dragon determined not to be deprived of its prey.

Tyler's hand clutched Fred Walton's shoulder and spun him round, fingers digging deep into the flesh. The empty bucket dropped to the ground and rolled away.

‘Let go of me.’ Walton's voice lost some of its anger as he saw the other's expression, tried to back away.

‘You fucking stupid old man!’ Tyler went with him, step for step. ‘You've asked for everything you're going to get!’

‘No!’ Terror, remembering the javelined fork, the boot about to go in. ‘I didn't mean to … you're mad!’

‘Yes, I'm mad. A raving homicidal lunatic who gets his kicks from lighting bonfires. Maybe I'll turn to arson next and burn your house down. Now that's a good idea …’

‘Leave 'im alone yer big bully!’ Elsie Walton appeared at the fence, contemplated climbing over, wondering if she was agile enough. She brandished the hoe which her husband had been using. ‘D'you 'ear me? Leave off 'im.’

Tyler loosed his grip, his arm falling to his side. Walton backed away another couple of steps, features purple, eyes bulging. Shaking in every limb.

‘I've rung the police,’ Elsie Walton shouted, as though she intended everyone on the Mildenhall estate to hear. ‘We've about 'ad enough o' this sorta nonsense.’

‘You can say that again.’ Tyler stopped, picked up the bucket and flung it back over the fence. A glance showed him that the fire was burning fiercely again now. The water had done no more than check it. ‘Now get out of this garden. You're trespassing.’

Walton backed slowly away towards the fence. He was certainly not going to turn his back on Tyler; the fellow was crazy. A self-confessed homicidal maniac, that much had already been made clear.

Tyler's blind rage had abated to a simmering fury.

‘What about my washin' then?’ Elsie Walton screamed. ‘Just look what you've done to it. The 'ole bleedin' lot's got to be done again.’

‘It was an unfortunate accident. Anyway I'm entitled to light a bonfire any time I want. This isn't a smokeless zone,’

‘We'll see what the police 'ave to say about it all.’

A retort was on Tyler's lips when he heard a car draw upon the road outside. Seconds later the latch on the side gate clicked and a uniformed constable clutching a clipboard walked into the garden. ‘You're Mr Tyler, I take it.’ His tone was clipped, his eyes missing nothing. He glanced at the bonfire, moved on to the Waltons, and came back to rest on Ray Tyler.

‘A storm in a teacup,’ Tyler said.

‘Like 'ell,’ Elsie Walton shouted. ‘See what e's done to my washing, Officer. And 'e's assaulted me 'usband.’

The policeman sighed, closed his eyes and opened them again. Domestic quarrels were the bane of the Force. The inspector had issued verbal instructions that statements were only to be taken where damage or physical violence occurred.

‘Assaulted your husband?’

‘Aye, shoved him and yesterday...’

‘Let's not worry about yesterday.’ A finger wagged at the three of them. ‘I'm afraid there's no law against lighting bonfires. People are just expected to be reasonable.’

‘Which 'e ain't!’ Elsie Walton, arms akimbo, glared at the policeman. ‘E's not right in the 'ead.’

‘Now look.’ The constable was getting annoyed. ‘I'm warning you, any further trouble and you're all likely to be done for behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace. The bonfire will be burnt out in another few minutes and if you'll take my advice, sir’ - he turned to Tyler - ‘in future you'll check wind direction and note whether or not neighbouring washing is being hung out to dry before lighting a fire.’

Tyler nodded, tight-lipped. There was no point in escalating this trouble any further.

‘So just pack it in.’ The policeman turned on his heel. ‘And don't let's have any more complaints.’

They watched him stalk away, slamming the gate shut behind him. The tension eased. Muttering between themselves the Waltons turned away, Elsie starting to remove her blackened washing from the line, dropping the garments into a large plastic basket.

Tyler stood watching his bonfire. The policeman had been right, another few minutes and all that would remain would be a heap of ashes. He went to fetch a rake preparatory to scuffling soil over the embers. He ought to have felt relaxed. He didn't. Tension was building up again. Still it was bound to take time to get the last couple of days and nights out of his system. With the book destroyed he would spend the rest of the day relaxing, sitting about doing nothing at all ….

As he returned to the heap of smoking fluttering paper ashes the shock hit him as though Fred Walton had suddenly appeared at the fence and deluged another bucket of icy water all over him. It had him recoiling, wide-eyed, mouthing his most dreaded fears in incoherent whispers.

‘Not Oh, God, no! Impossible … impossible!’

Impossible as it seemed it was true. The wind had blown the ashes, dispersed the pile, revealed a thick brown oblong shape, charred but otherwise intact, instantly recognisable. The fearful book had survived the inferno!

He stood there staring at it, more ash blowing away as though some invisible evil force was determined to display its invincibility. Tyler looked wildly around, felt the panic inside him, wanted to run. Anywhere. His temples throbbed, his mouth was dry, tasted sour.

There was nothing to be gained by running away. Anyway, he had nowhere to go. It was all Fred Walton's fault. That was how the book had survived; that bucket of water had damped it and being thick it had resisted the flames. There hadn't been enough heat in the fire; cardboard boxes weren't sufficient. What was needed was a real good garden bonfire, loads of dry hedge cuttings, a real bed of slow consuming fire.

Tyler shook his head in despair. It was impossible right now. First, he didn't have any material with which to make such a fire. Second, the police warning was clear enough; if he made more smoke the Waltons wouldn't hesitate to call the law again. Behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace.

The more he thought about Fred Walton the more his anger returned, his hatred of the old man growing to intensity. He should have killed him when he had the chance. Hell, no, that was fucking stupid! All the same he'd like to kill him.

He found his gaze being drawn back to the book. Well, it couldn't be left lying there. Taking a deep breath he stretched out a hand, got a grip on it. It wasn't even warm! He lifted it out, shook ash and dust from it, blew on it. Virtually unscathed. He shuddered, wondered if it would be possible to bury it, let it rot in the earth. No, that wasn't the way. The evil from those pages would only live on in the soil. Maybe spread.

Tyler's steps were slow as he carried it back indoors, laid it on the sink unit. He didn't know why he wiped it down, took it almost reverently back into the living room and placed it in its original place on the table. Back to square one. Crazy. He couldn't take much more.

He returned to the kitchen and made himself another coffee. He didn't feel hungry, far from it. He needed to think and there wasn't much time; in a matter of a few more hours it would be night. And it would start all over again …

He wondered about taking the volume to the council tip on the other side of town. It might lie there for weeks before the bulldozers ploughed it in along with tons of other rubbish. It was no different from burying it in the garden.

A sudden idea. Simple, outrageous, effective - at least he hoped so. If, as he presumed, evil emanated from those frowsty pages, a legend that lived and breathed between the covers, then he was only affected because he was the rightful owner. Pass it on, give it to somebody else, and the curse would be transferred. In theory, anyway. It presented difficulties. You couldn't just go up to somebody in the street and give it to them. In all probability their first reaction would be that it was a letter bomb or some such fiendish device. He thought about returning it to the bookshop. Hell, they were closed on Wednesday afternoons. Tomorrow might be too late.

He pursed his lips. He didn't know anybody who collected books. Maybe … the sheer audacity of the idea had him laughing aloud. Post it to somebody! Anonymously. Not to a friend, somebody he hated,- somebody he really wanted revenge on. The Waltons? It was a tempting thought. But it was too close. The semi next door was virtually under the same roof. It wasn't really getting rid of the curse, only the thickness of a wall away.

Somebody else then. God Almighty, George Henshaw!

Trembling with excitement Tyler went back up to the lumber room and began collecting brown paper and string. He found ample; Lillian was obsessed with hoarding anything that might ‘come in’ even to the extent of carefully unwrapping Christmas presents and neatly folding the gaily coloured wrapping paper. Miserliness, really.

He used the dining table to wrap his parcel, savouring each fold, relieved once the first layer was Sellotaped down and he didn't have to touch the smooth leather again. The very feel of it revolted him. No doubt about it, the book was the cause of the trouble.

A sigh of satisfaction and relief as he tied the last knot and set about addressing the outer covering. Block capitals, using the left hand just to be sure; you couldn't take any chances with Henshaw, he was the type to start comparing the handwriting with that in the daily cash books on the counter.

Finished! Now all that remained was to post it. Fuck it, the sub-post office counter at Cawthornes' small supermarket was closed on Wednesday afternoons! Still, it was risky there. Mrs Cawthorne was another of the Mildenhall gossips, scrutinising everybody's mail after they had gone out, reading postcards and any unsealed letters. She might just put two and two together. It wasn't worth the risk. Far better to take it to the General. He marked it clearly FIRST CLASS (make sure the bastard gets it first thing in the morning), and tucking it under his arm he went out to the garage.

Within a couple of minutes he knew that the Viva wasn't going to start. The battery was flat, not enough power even to turn the starter motor. Well it might just be because it had stood for two days … yes, it had to be that. Nothing to do with the book or its powers; it couldn't control inanimate objects!

The walk into town and back, the fresh air, would do him good. He set off at a fast pace. He could be back home within the hour. He was sweating; too many clothes, he hadn't realised how much warmer it had turned. That stiff breeze seemed to have dropped.

Sheer relief when he arrived at the General Post Office, banged his way in through the swing doors. The place was empty, counter clerks busily totting up wads of postal orders in readiness for a swift getaway at 5.30.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ A plump girl in her late teens with heavy-rimmed glasses jotted a pencil figure on a scrap of paper and smiled at him.

‘Thank you.’ He passed the parcel over. ‘First Class, please.’ Christ, it's time somebody helped me.

‘Wow, it'll cost you a bomb, sir!’ Squinting at the dial on the scales. ‘One pound forty-three.’ She glanced at the address. The bank's only in the next street, about a minute's walk from here. Why don't you pop round and drop it through their letter box or even ring the side door bell and hand it in?’

‘No!’ He tensed, gripped the edge of the counter. ‘I … want … to … post it!’ Jesus Christ, the idle cow's even trying to get out of sticking a few stamps on. That's the attitude of the Post Office, sod the customer. The sooner they didn't have a monopoly, the better.

‘Very well, sir.’ Coldly efficient now, eyeing the scales again.

Tyler pushed a five-pound note through the slot under the bandit screen. He half wondered if there was going to be another last minute hitch. I'm sorry, sir, but we can't accept your package because …

‘Thank you, sir.’ His change came back in a heap. He heard the parcel thud into a wicker basket behind her, saw her begin counting sheets of stamps.

He let out a loud sigh of relief. Thank God, at last! Even if Henshaw didn't get it in the morning at least he'd got rid of it. All mail is the property of the Post Office until it is delivered. Well, they owned the fucking book now and the best of British to 'em!

He'd been sweating heavily. It wasn't until he stepped outside into the street and the cool late afternoon air began to chill his body that he realised it. Still it was all over now. Tonight he would sleep soundly. At least he hoped so.

The return journey was more leisurely. He almost took a bus which pulled into a stop as he was passing but decided against it. His step was almost jaunty.

Pausing briefly he purchased an early edition of the evening paper and for some minutes his apprehension returned as he scanned the front page. ‘VICIOUS SEX ATTACK.’ A quickening of his breath, bumping against another pedestrian. Relief, some lunatic down south had raped a teenager. ‘Mugging in city centre’. Tyler read the short account. It might have been those three … No, they wouldn't be on the rampage for some time yet, they were in no fit state. Nothing much else to interest him. The unions were spoiling for trouble again; they weren't happy if they weren't. One of his pet hates, unions. One that was rapidly being shared by three-quarters of the British public. Tyler folded up the paper and pushed it into his pocket. So far so good.

It was as he entered the outskirts of the Mildenhall estate that he saw Pat Davidson. There was no mistaking the tall figure in the cream trouser suit alighting from a crowded bus, the dark hair … Too late, she saw him, paused and looked, waited for him …

Tyler licked his lips nervously; there was no way he could avoid her. Not unless he turned and retraced his steps. He slowed, embarrassed, dropping his gaze.

‘You bastard!’ Her words were like a whiplash cutting in to him, making him flinch. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself last night!’

Face to face, he couldn't even avoid her gaze now, tried to think of something to say and failed.

‘You're an animal,’ she hissed. ‘the lowest of the low. No better than a wild animal!’

Then she was gone, striding on ahead of him, head and shoulders erect, her whole bearing one of contempt for Ray Tyler.

Dusk was beginning to darken the sky as he mounted the steep drive leading to number eighty-seven. The house itself had an atmosphere of desertion about it, a kind of hopelessness which began with the unlighted windows but went much deeper. Lillian wasn't home, she always switched the kitchen light on long before it was necessary; countless times Ray had reminded her of soaring electricity bills but it made no difference. Suddenly, right now, he would have been pleased to see every light in the house burning, an aroma of cooking greeting him as he entered the back door.

Instead there was nothing but emptiness. He closed the door, felt the sheer loneliness of it all seeping into his system, bringing back memories of that time when he was fourteen and had elected to stay at home rather than go on holiday with his parents. The afternoon of their departure had been one of elation for him, freedom. Towards evening it had waned. That night in bed he had cried, real salty wet tears that he thought had gone for ever when childhood had merged into adolescence. Man wasn't meant to live alone.

It was no different now. It would have been so easy to break down and cry.

He put the kettle on for another coffee not because he needed it but because it was something to do. When he looked outside again it was dark. Night had fallen, the real test had begun.

Chapter EIGHT

Ray Tyler went round the house and drew every curtain. It gave him a shut-in feeling. There was nothing to worry about, he'd told himself that a score of times since leaving the Post Office. The curse was gone. Tomorrow Henshaw would have it and that couldn't be a bad thing.

The immediate problem was how to pass the night. He didn't fancy going upstairs to bed. Not alone, anyway. Wherever he spent the nocturnal hours it was going to be a long and nerve-racking ordeal. But in the end it would be all right. It had to be. Nothing could hurt him now.

He sat down in an armchair in the living room and reached across to switch on the television. In a strange sort of way it was companionship. A load of rubbish most of the time but it talked and made a noise. There weren't many programmes worth watching these days.

It was impossible to concentrate on the programme. He didn't attempt to follow the documentary, more concerned with his own troubles than a growing Middle East crisis. Anyway, once he got his self-sufficiency plan running smoothly the Arabs could go and take a running jump. He wouldn't need their oil. Heat with wood, run the Viva on methane.

Now that he'd had time to think it over he came to the conclusion that the bank probably wouldn't sack him; not whilst there was an element of doubt in their minds as to what really happened. Officially they would take Henshaw's word, his integrity beyond question. Unofficially, though, there had to be those who were aware of the bank manager's temper. Far better to reinstate a cashier than to risk the adverse publicity involved in being taken to a tribunal. They'd probably transfer Tyler, though, lose him in a big staff wastage at a larger branch. That wasn't a very reassuring thought either; one of the main branches in the city centre, commuting, repetitive incentive-lacking duties, the legions of the hopeless.

And then he was suddenly aware that he wasn't alone in the room. The door clicked shut, a footstep.

‘What …’ Leaping up, cowering back, terrified at what he might see, arms thrown up in a protective manner half expecting an attack of some kind.

‘Hello.’ Lillian stood there trying to hide her concern beneath a smile and failing miserably. ‘I'm sorry if I startled you.’

His sigh was like that of a deflated balloon. ‘I was miles away, wasn't expecting you.’

‘How are you feeling?’ She scrutinised him intently, her eyes narrowing.

‘I'm all right,’ he snapped ‘There was never anything really wrong with me.’

‘I'm going to make some coffee.’ She shrugged off her coat and draped it over a chair. ‘Would you like one?’

‘OK.’ He nodded, his eyes following her as she walked back out to the kitchen. Funny, even now after several years of marriage, he had to admit to himself that she was sexier than Pat Davidson. It was just that he hadn't noticed it much recently, taken her for granted. Maybe - and the idea gave him a sense of relief - they ought to put their cards on the table, talk everything over. It couldn't do any harm; might even do some good. Indecision again. If it was all over now what was the point of stirring everything up? But if it wasn't … He shuddered.

Lillian came back with two mugs of coffee, handed him one and leaned across to turn the gas fire up.

‘It's chilly in here,’ she said and glanced at him. A pause, waiting for him to say something.

‘How's Ma?’ The nearest he ever got to a term of endearment when referring to Lillian‘s mother.

‘All right. Apart from the usual troubles, her arthritis and old age.’

‘Bad enough for you to have to stay overnight?’

Lillian Tyler flushed slightly and took a sip of coffee. ‘No. I could have come back last night but I thought it was better if I didn't.’

‘Because of me? I thought you were concerned about my health.’

‘I am but’ - a pause, not meeting his gaze - ‘you've got to admit life's getting pretty intolerable.’

‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘I'm glad.’ A slight pang of guilt. Maybe she'd been too hasty calling in at the solicitor's this morning, discussing possible divorce proceedings. But they'd only been tentative enquiries. ‘I think it's time we both had a talk instead of sweeping everything under the carpet and pretending it doesn't exist.’

Another silence. She watched him carefully, putting the onus on him. He wished he knew what she was thinking, her feelings for him. Maybe something still existed. He hoped so.

‘I was pretty … intolerable the other night, wasn't I?’ He stared into the fire.

‘That's an understatement. I can put up with most things, even being raped but not … not like that!’

Tell me.’ His features were strained. ‘Did you notice anything odd about me that night?’

‘You've been odd, and that's putting it mildly, ever since you came home on Monday night. Doubtless it all stemmed from the fight in the car park.’

‘I don't mean that.’ He spoke quickly; nervously entwining his fingers, scrutinising them as though he suddenly expected them to change into vicious claws, ‘I'm talking about a physical change.’

‘I didn't notice anything. Just that you behaved like a wild animal.’

‘Nothing?’ His eyebrows raised, watching her carefully, looking for some sign. But there was none. Oh, God, he thought, I really am going mad.

Lillian watched him, saw the anguish in his eyes, tried to conjure up sympathy, tried to push the rape out of her mind, pretend it hadn't really happened; just forceful love play that had got out of hand. But it was no good, in the end she had to face up to bare facts. She regretted not having remained at her mother's. Maybe it wasn't too late to go back.

‘Well?’ His lips were a thin bloodless line. ‘Don't just stand there looking at me. For Christ's sake tell me the truth!’

‘I've told you.’ She turned away so that she didn't have to meet his gaze. ‘There was nothing. Nothing physical.’

‘Then there's nothing to worry about.’

She thought, you want me to tell you what you want to hear. And for God's sake what am I supposed to say, that you turned into a grizzly bear or something. ‘You ought to see a doctor.’

‘No, I don't want to see a doctor because if there was no physical change then I don't need to. It's all in the mind.’

‘In which case you should see Doctor Daniels.’

‘No!’ Almost a scream. ‘There's nothing the matter with me.’ Not now, anyway. Getting rid of the book was the answer to his problems. He prayed that she wouldn't ask what he'd done with it. There was no way she would accept any explanation about his visit to Pat Davidson. ‘I just need your help, Lil, your understanding.’

‘You're so insular. Every suggestion I make is thrown out. I still say you need to see a doctor.’

‘Look, I'll agree to see a doctor if anything happens to me tonight.’ And it won't now I've got rid of the book. He felt his emotions building up to a peak, the sudden need to break down into a flood of tears but the male instinct made him fight against it. ‘Please, Lil, stick by me, give me this one last chance.’

‘All right.’ There were still some cigarettes in her handbag and she only just stopped herself from reaching for one. To have broken their pact would have been psychologically bad for both of them. Now they'd made another but it seemed a hopeless fight. Sooner or later it would end in divorce.

‘And what about the bank, have they contacted you?’ she asked.

Briefly he told her about Gadwall's visit and the latest row with the Waltons.

‘You're a glutton for punishment,’ she snapped. ‘Whatever did you have to light a bonfire for?’

‘To burn the book, of course.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Offhand, dismissing it as a childish whim. ‘I would've thought it was easier just to throw it in the dustbin.’

Ray Tyler didn't enlighten her any further.

‘How much have you told your mother?’ He was suddenly tense again.

‘Nothing much.’ Which meant quite a lot.

‘Like what?’

‘Like you've been behaving unreasonably lately.’

‘Too much sex in other words.’

‘Well, you've got to admit that you have been, unreasonable.’

‘Maybe the other night. But not generally. Hell, we only have it about twice a month. You can't expect any man to be satisfied with that.’

‘Probably I haven't been fair to you. I don't feel the urge lately but I'll try to be more cooperative. We've got to work something out between us. I'm not a prude, you know.’

You could've fooled me lately, he thought. If you weren't so indoctrinated by your mother it'd help.

She pulled her chair closer, her hand creeping over to find his. He smiled, turned his attention back to the television screen. Possibly things were going to work out after all.

‘I'm tired,’ she yawned after an hour or so and glanced at the clock on the mantleshelf. ‘Maybe we could have an early night.’

‘Suits me.’ The sooner this night was over the better.

‘I'll go on up,’ She extricated her hand, stood up and smiled down at him. ‘Come up when you're ready.’

He took his time over the last chores, washing the mugs, locking the doors, checking that fires and lights were out. Then he went upstairs, cleaned his teeth in the bathroom, ran his fingers over his chin and debated whether to shave now or in the morning. Morning would do; there was no hurry to report to the branch. Henshaw crossed his mind; in all probability the manager had gone straight back to work from the casualty department after having treatment to his nose. He was that kind of man, even looked in during his holidays, thought the place couldn't possibly tick over without him. Never had a day's sickness in spite of his unhealthy state.

He wandered into the kitchen, relieved at finding himself alone once again. God, he was getting soft, letting that bitch of a wife have her own way. And all the time he hated her, just as he hated that bastard Henshaw. His body tensed at the thought of the bank manager, stirring a latent rage so that he felt dizzy and had to hold on to the edge of the table. This should not be happening to him tonight. It would pass, it had to. Because he had got rid of the book. And he was normal again!

He closed his eyes, waited for the strange prickly sensation to pass. And then he heard a faint noise, a kind of scuffling outside the back door. He forced his eyes open, held his breath whilst he listened. The sound came again. Something was out there!

Tyler was aware of the cold beads of sweat on his forehead, the sinking sensation in his stomach. There was definitely something moving outside in the alley between the side of the house and the garage. Perhaps it was a hunting cat (a shiver that he could not explain), or even just mice. But he would have to go and see, just to make sure. Otherwise he would never be able to sleep tonight.

Walking on tiptoe, pressing himself up against the door, moving the curtain back from the glass and trying to see outside, but all he saw was his own reflection against the background of the kitchen. Oh, God, he'd have, to open the door!

His fingers shook as he eased the handle down, dragged the door back a few inches. Something moved and he almost slammed it shut again. Suddenly he saw what had made the noise and a shudder of relief passed over his body. A rabbit, a black and white one, large and fat, staring up at him with eyes that shone pink in the light from the kitchen, ears erect. He recognised it instantly; it often used to come into the garden and graze the lawn. It belonged to one of the houses over the back along by … Pat Davidson's.

Rabbit and man stared at each other, neither moving. And then Tyler felt that strange creeping sensation coming back, goose pimples that brought with them that feeling of … lust and anger! That fucking rabbit, before long it would be nibbling the vegetables he was going to grow in that patch of lawn he'd dug up. An odour briefly assailed his nostrils, an appetising smell that went back to his childhood reminding him of Saturdays - on Saturdays his mother always cooked rabbit pie for lunch. But he didn't need it cooked now, he wanted to taste the raw flesh, running red with blood!

He stepped outside, felt slightly dizzy but did not stop. Advancing slowly, fingers outstretched, muttering incomprehensible words that somehow sounded soothing. At least the creature did not try to run away. It sat there looking up at him, eyes wide, ears pressed flat against its head. It was terrified!

One quick grab and he had it, held it by the back legs as it started to kick and struggle. He laughed throatily, enjoying its helplessness, the way it started to squeal. A sharp cracking sound; he had broken its back legs!

But Tyler could wait no longer. For the second time he smelled cooking rabbit meat, and with one swift movement he dashed the animal against the garage wall, heard the dull thud, as its skull hit the concrete blocks, felt it go limp and lifeless in his hands.

He stood there, holding it aloft, watching a trickle of blood oozing out of one ear, saw it for what it was. Food!

Ravenously he tore at the soft loose skin, ripping it back from the flesh, entrails spilling out, the paunch hanging by a single thread. Tyler's mouth went down and under, opened wide to receive the warm stinking offering, chewing as he swallowed, spitting out lumps of digested vegetation; he only needed meat!

Now he was in the grip of a frenzy, the skin pulled down as far as the head, his jaws crunching through the ribcage, grinding on bone regardless of splinters, drinking the blood thirstily as it gushed from the punctured heart. Faded memories of tasty Saturday lunches, only a thousand times better, the flesh soft and squelchy as it should have been, devouring it until only the head and the skin remained.

Then, just as suddenly as the lust had come upon him, it left him. He staggered back, unable to believe what he had done, but the rabbit remnants in his hand, the vile taste in his mouth, were proof enough. Oh, Jesus God!

His knees sagged and he dropped to all fours, felt more comfortable that way. Then he was throwing up, turning his head trying not to see the remains of his carnage, moaning with despair.

It was an hour before he had finished cleaning himself up in the sink and had plucked up the courage to go upstairs. The bedroom door was ajar and he stood there looking in. Lillian was sleeping heavily, a slumber of exhaustion, her breasts rising and falling rhythmically. He wanted to go to her, to lie by her side and be aware of the closeness of the one person in the world who might possibly care. But he couldn't, not after that!

He retraced his steps, went back slowly downstairs, fell on to the sofa in the living room and stretched himself out. Reconciliation had been in sight little more than an hour ago; now it was gone for ever.

George Henshaw had been fairly tolerable, by his standards, throughout the day. In spite of a nose which throbbed and ached beneath the strips of sticking plaster his mood was one of quiet self-satisfaction within the confines of the managerial sanctum. It was worth all the pain and discomfort merely to settle Tyler properly. He half wished that he hadn't slapped the fool but if he hadn't the cashier's uncontrollable wrath wouldn't have been invoked. After all, he consoled himself, it was only Tyler's word against his own, and Head Office would believe a manager before they took the slightest heed of what a clerk had to say. In the end it had all worked out rather , well, if not without some pain and discomfort.

Gadwall had phoned again to say he'd managed to contact Tyler.

‘Of course it all rests with the Staff Manager at Head Office now.’ The personnel officer had sounded patronising (and so he should!) ‘There's nothing for you to worry about, Mr Henshaw. Tyler is suspended until further notice. The chiefs on holiday for three weeks, going to Majorca, and he'll probably shelve his final decision until he gets back. All we're asking you to do at present is to ensure that Tyler reports to the branch daily.’

Henshaw delegated that task within minutes of ringing off. That was Brownleigh's responsibility. His own job was concerned solely with lending and increased branch profits each half-year. In fact nowadays he really shouldn't have any contact with the office at all. And he wouldn't do if he had an efficient chief clerk.

Henshaw's contempt for Brownleigh increased daily. The man was a ditherer, unable to make a decision without reference to the manager, no better than Tyler except that he had studied for and passed - after a decade of attempts - his IOB exams. Henshaw blamed himself for Brownleigh's continued presence at his branch. For three years' now the manager had given the other a poor rating on the annual staff report. That had been a mistake - it had hindered the chief clerk's chances of promotion and kept him at this branch. The fellow wasn't really bad enough for demotion. A negative situation that might last for another five years, even beyond Henshaw's own retirement date.

The manager came to a decision. This year Brownleigh would have a good report. Get rid of the fool.

As for Tyler, he wasn't coming back here. No matter how the staff department reacted in their usual leaning towards benevolence. Henshaw would stick to his guns. The fellow should be sacked but if they weren't prepared to do that then they could give him another posting.

Henshaw sighed. A quick telephone call to his wife to inform her that he would be late home tonight. She accepted it without question. The status of bank manager's wife was one that was envied throughout Richmond Way, otherwise known as ‘Millionaires' Row’. Henshaw held the fate of the wealthy executives from one end of the road to the other in the palm of his hand. They all survived on overdraft; without his blessing on their red bank balance their high living standards could be curtailed overnight. Thus George Henshaw and his wife were the most important people in Richmond Way. Secretly he dreaded his retirement, his power taken away and everybody aware that the Henshaws were only able to live in the most desirable area of town on the strength of a bank mortgage which had enabled them to buy their property in the first place. Possibly in view of his exemplary record and major achievements, Henshaw thought, the bank would postpone his retirement for a little while.

He did not mind staying late at the office. It was a different place once the rabble had struggled to complete their menial tasks and departed. When Brownleigh had reported that everything was in order and Henshaw had sneered silently, watching the other's round-shouldered exit, the building took on the atmosphere of a temple, a divine place of mystic worship. Only the chosen few understood the real mysteries of banking.

Henshaw glanced at the wall clock and relaxed in the silence of the empty branch. Cookland wouldn't be here for another half-hour yet. Cookland needed a further limit on his overdraft, another five grand at least. Excise duty really fouled up the financial rewards of importation of foreign wines, money that was tied up right until the man in the street purchased his bottle of cheap red plonk to convince the wife that her birthday really was something special. Cookland needed to stock his three shops in readiness for the Easter upsurge in trade and he didn't have much capital.

Henshaw smiled to himself. That was the kind of business he liked. Secure, no risk. Profitable, especially if the bank rate went up the expected half per cent next Thursday. And there would be a ‘commitment fee’ of course. Now that really was exploitation by the bank, twenty-five pounds on top of everything else which you justified (if the customer queried it - most were only too delighted with the overdraft being granted anyway) by explaining that it barely covered the necessary additional paperwork.

Henshaw checked that his cigar box was full. Every detail counted where a man like Cookland was concerned. And it paid dividends; there would surely be an invitation to wine and dine at the Cooklands' residence in Richmond Way before the month was out. And a crate of best burgundy thrown in as well. Yes, George Henshaw was only too pleased to arrange additional overdraft facilities for Walter Cookland. A couple of hours' work would be well rewarded. Young Anderson would do all the graft tomorrow and get his arse kicked if the charge form wasn't round at Cookland's shop for signing by midday.

George Henshaw was in a state of euphoria that made the locking of the side door more difficult than usual when he let himself out shortly after eight o'clock. He watched Walter Cookland pulling away from the kerb in his Mercedes, the sudden surge forward which had an overtaking driver yelling abuse from the window, the tendency to drive down the centre of the road, an erratic course which somehow took him safely as far as the first set of traffic lights.

Henshaw shook his head as he turned down the alley leading to the car park where his Rover was parked. It was strange that one who dealt in intoxicating liquor by the gallon had his own sense of judgement impaired by three double whiskies. It all depended on individual limits, he supposed. Now in his own case those three doubles had merely given him a sense of well-being. Not that he would care to undergo a breathalyser test; he wasn't likely to, though. The officers patrolling the streets all knew his car and the chief inspector had a sizeable overdraft with his branch. Wheels within wheels, so to speak, the kind which made the world go round and enhanced life generally.

As he reached the car park he made a mental note to ring up Challens at the council offices in the morning and get something done about the inadequate lighting. The council were only too keen for their wardens to check the tickets in the windscreens every few hours and to increase the no parking areas in the surrounding streets but once they'd forced the public to use their parking areas they couldn't give a damn. Well, even the borough council were in the red at the bank so they had better do something to improve their …

Henshaw stopped, turned, and saw the youths. Three of them, typical town hangabouts after the shops had closed, long straggling hair that hadn't been washed for weeks, synthetic leather windcheaters that trapped in the B.O. Synonymous of which a local chief magistrate had referred to as ‘human vermin’ when sentencing a bunch of soccer hooligans after the Villa's last home match.

Human vermin. Repulsive. Dangerous! Henshaw's breathing went very shallow. He remembered having noticed them hanging around in the street by the bank, hadn't paid much attention to them at the time. They must have followed him here. He thought about the strongroom keys in his pocket. Brownleigh had the second set. Dual control. Security. Rules of the bank. But these kids didn't know that. And it was no good trying to tell them.

They bunched ominously, stood watching him, shapes in the shadows, featureless, muttering to one another in low voices.

‘You sure?’

‘Course I'm sure. 'E came from the bank, didn't'e. Just like Jess said 'e would.’

‘'E don't look the type. Too old and fat.’

‘Don't take no notice of looks. Never can tell.’

‘D'you lads want something?’ George Henshaw tried to make his voice sound stern. He glanced about him. The car park was totally deserted, the surrounding premises empty at this hour.

‘Yeah,’ One of the three moved forward a step and spat contemptuously on to the tarmac. ‘We do. You ain't goin' to get away with beatin' three o' our mates up.’

‘You're mad.’ Henshaw backed away another step. ‘I don't even know your mates. As for beating them up …’ He nearly said. ‘I wouldn't like to risk touching them’ but instead. ‘I couldn't manage three of them.’

‘Jess said to watch 'im,’ the foremost youth whispered aside. ‘Say. 'e moves so fast you don't know what's 'it yer … until 'e's broke yer arm and bit yer fuckin' throat. Now you two, circle 'im, one on either side, and don't take yer eyes off im.’

The bank manager saw them coming, the two fanning out then closing in, the first one advancing in a direct line. A three-pronged attack. They had something in their hands, something which clinked and jangled. Bicycle chains!

He felt the way his heart reacted, a sudden thrust like a ram being made to pump an additional volume of water, straining to take the pressure. He thought he was going to faint but the sensation passed. Arms uplifted, babbling incoherent pleas, trying to tell them who he was. Nobody in this town would knowingly uplift a finger against George Henshaw. Liked, respected, feared. But his attackers were devoid of any logic, mercilessly closing in on him.

You've made a mistake. I'm not who you think I am. It's the bad lighting that's responsible. Blame the council. I tell you it's not me you want. Somebody else. Please! Oh, my God!

Chains cut through the air like snapped steel hawsers, snaking down, finding their target. The first, wielded by the smallest of the three who couldn't get the height he wanted, caught Henshaw sideways across the mouth, tearing one cheek, snapping and splintering the dentures, severing the tongue and ripping its way out through the other cheek.

The banker's scream was more of a whimper that spewed out blood. The second chain took his left eye out vertically, cracking forehead and cheekbone, the gash joining up with the one that lacerated mouth and cheek.

A red haze of shimmering pain blurred his one-eyed vision, lasting only a few seconds as the third chain smashed into the top of his skull, cracking it open like a hammered coconut, bringing with it a blackness that shut out everything. Oblivion.

George Henshaw tottered, a swaying corpse, the chains continuing to lash his body, cutting through his expensive clothing, lacerating flesh and splintering bone, throwing him first one way and then the other until finally his legs crumpled and threw him to the ground.

Even then his attackers did not stop. Like carnivores they were spurred on by the sight and smell of blood, slashing again and again, laughing as they heard bones cracking, oblivious of the blood which spattered them from the mulch on the ground which had once been a man. Jess and the other two had to be avenged. Death in itself was not enough.

Then fear took over, sending them fleeing blindly, clutching their bloody chains. They hadn't meant to kill the guy; just to mess him up a bit. Never before had the frenzy taken them like this.

Now all that was left was to run. And run. And keep on running.

Ray Tyler awoke sometime in the early hours of the morning. He sat up in bed and ran his fingers over his naked body. Smooth, hairless. Thank God! It had been the book then and now that he had got rid of it he was back to normal.

He sat there staring into the darkness. Something else was different, not like it had been last night. And the night before that. At first he couldn't think what it was and it was some minutes before it occurred to him.

Of course, there was no silvery moonlight filtering in through the curtains and casting strange patterns on walls and ceiling. No moon ... the source of power which controlled a werewolf, turned him into a ravaging beast.

‘… the moon is the key to the existence of this terrible creature. Without it he is powerless …’

Oh, Jesus God! Tyler clutched at himself in his terror and despair as the words from that book came back at him with the force of a hammer blow. He had disposed of the book but tonight it would not have made any difference anyway. Because the period of the full moon was over! Only when it waxed again would he know for sure whether he had thrown off the curse.

He lay back on the pillows but sleep would not return. He would not sleep peacefully again until he knew for certain.

And he determined that if the change came again then he would take his own life.

Chapter NINE

Ray Tyler's early morning depression had lifted by the time he arrived in town. He experienced a sense of near-elation as he pushed open the swing doors of the bank. In a way his position was unique; a full salary and freedom that might last for some time depending upon the length of the enquiry. He could do just as he liked.

The banking hall was crowded. Yet there was something amiss. It took him a few seconds to realise what it was. A hum of low, almost whispered, conversation. Subdued. Nowhere was there any jovial exchange between waiting customers. Not a smile to be seen.

Tyler moved over towards the enquiry counter, joined a queue of some five or six people, customers whom he had served on countless occasions. A few nods, a half-smile, nothing more.

Anderson looked harassed at the small side counter, his usually sleek hair ruffled, frowning with perplexity as he struggled with a host of queries. Something was definitely wrong, something which had cast a mantle of gloom on staff and customers alike.

‘Terrible business.’ Jeffcoat the manager of a tailor's shop in High Street leaned towards Tyler, whispering. ‘Horrible!’

‘What is?’ Ray Tyler asked. ‘I haven't a clue what's going on, I'm on … on holiday. Just popped in.’

‘Haven't you heard? Henshaw's dead!’

‘What!’ Tyler gripped a radiator on which he was leaning, felt his senses reeling. Oh, Christ, it was the book then! And he's hardly had it more than an hour, I killed him. I'm a murderer!

‘Sure. Some thugs beat him up … in the car park. According to what I've heard the poor sod was scarcely recognisable. They had to spread a load of sand on the tarmac to cover up the blood!’

‘Jesus! In broad daylight.’

‘What? No, it must've happened last night as he was on his way to get his car.’

Tyler blanched, felt his stomach heaving up to meet his throat, thought for one terrible moment that he was going to vomit. Last night! Then Henshaw hadn't received the book. It couldn't have been the instrument of death in this case!

‘Can I help you, Mr Tyler?’ Anderson was staring through the bulletproof screen, contempt in his expression. The new breed of banker who looked down on his colleague who had come up through the ranks; got away with a string of balls-ups just because as a late entrant he'd come straight from university with a few A-Levels that didn't count for much - even excused him some of the IOB exams which in all probability he would have struggled to pass anyway. ‘Golden Boy’, with two days a week study leave, a crash course in the elementary banking system which didn't allow for the gathering of experience because it wasn't considered necessary. Managerial material that didn't need to know how the lesser half worked because there would always be stuck-in-a-rut chief clerks to see to that. Theory not practice was the motto.

‘Yes, Mr Tyler?’ Anderson was edgy, impatient. Worried, ‘I'm rather busy, to say the least.’

‘Are you?’ Tyler leaned closer. The other knew what he wanted all right but was annoyingly pretending that he didn't. Spell it out, Mr Tyler (I can't call you Ray because you're suspended, your career in tatters) and let everybody hear why you're on the other side of the counter.

‘If you're really pressed I'll call back tomorrow. Nothing particularly important. Just tell old Cyril I called.’

‘Perhaps you'd care to see Mr Brownleigh now, Mr Tyler?’

‘Not particularly. That's up to you. Sort something out, though. I haven't got a lot of time.’

A malicious stare from the twenty-five year old. His belittling tactics had backfired on himself. ‘Is it the Attendance Book you want?’

‘If it's handy.’

Anderson turned away, tense with fury. Tyler watched him striding across to Brownleigh's desk, rummaging amongst a clutter of books and papers, failing to find what he sought, staring in the direction of the manager's office. The door was closed, the lights on. A conference of some sort. He could see Brownleigh's outline against the frosted glass, wondered who else was in there with him. Head Office officials, probably police also. Gadwall with the biggest problem of his life on his hands.

Anderson was coming back shaking his head. ‘I can't see the Attendance Book anywhere. Mr Brownleigh must have it in the room with him.’

‘Not to worry.’ Tyler forced a relaxed smile! ‘I'll probably be popping in tomorrow anyway.’

That one really went home, Ray Tyler noticed with a surge of self-satisfaction. Anderson was about to say something, thought better of it and deliberately turned his attention to a plump woman angrily brandishing a bank statement in her hand. Judging by her irate manner the computer had once again displayed its fallibility.

Tyler left the bank slowly, his pulses racing. So George Henshaw had met his Waterloo in the car park. There had been one or two muggings there in the past. It could just be a coincidence …

‘Dead!’ Lillian Tyler's eyebrows went up and she almost dropped the plate which she was drying.

‘Sure.’ Ray had regained his composure on the journey home. ‘Some hooligans mugged him in the car park, probably went further than they intended.’

‘The car park!’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘That's where you … where you were attacked.’

‘Precisely. It's a bad place. Worse than any city centre subway because after about seven at night there's nobody about. Just that bit too far out to be used by cinemagoers and pubbers. Deserted, nobody to hear you if you scream.’

‘You don't think’ - her features paled – ‘that it was the same ones …?’

‘No chance. They won't be around for a bit yet.’

‘Some friends of theirs then?’

‘Possibly. Who knows?’

‘Hadn't you better report to the police that …?’

‘No!’ His lips tightened. ‘As far as the police are concerned I never saw any yobs in the car park on Monday night. Come to think of it, it's just as well I stayed home last night. No doubt the cops will be checking on everybody who had reason to hate that bastard. And as I busted his nose the day before it's odds on I'll be high on their list of possibles. So just remember, nothing happened on Monday night.’

She nodded and had difficulty holding back her tears.

Lillian stood in the window watching Ray as he walked down the drive, noting that he turned right when he reached the road. That meant he wasn't going into town again. Just a casual stroll in search of fresh air and exercise. She had half expected him to resume his excavation of the lawn after lunch but he had only fed and watered the poultry. She had noticed the way he had glanced about him during the three or four minutes whilst he was out there. Maybe he didn't want to invite more trouble with the Waltons. Or else he just didn't feel like gardening. His moods were alternating between elation and depression. She sensed her husband was delighted about George Henshaw's death. That worried her; she would never forget Ray's vicious sex attack on herself. In that kind of mood he was capable of anything. Whatever he might say he was ill, a mental disease that was eating into him.

She felt the craving for a cigarette, her nerves crying out for tobacco. He was likely to be away for an hour at least. Maybe if she smoked one outside he'd never know; indoors he might smell it when he returned. There was some washing to be hung out. She could take her time, enjoy a smoke out in the garden.

Lillian had just finished pegging the last garment on the line when she heard a movement in the adjoining garden. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Elsie Walton by the fence looking across at her.

‘Bin away 'ave yer?’ Mrs Walton leaned on the fence. Lillian was relieved to see her smiling. Obviously the Waltons' animosity was only directed at Ray. Somehow she must try and maintain an impartial role if only for the sake of neighbourly relationships.

‘I went over to mother's. Stayed the night. She isn't …’

‘I don't blame yer, duck. Not with an 'usband like yours and 'is fits o' temper. Blimey 'e might go and do yer in when 'e's got one o' them moods on.’

Lillian stiffened, swallowed, wished that she'd remained indoors. ‘I don't think that's likely. He's been under a lot of stress lately at work.’

‘So's half the people in this country. That's why the 'ead farms are overcrowded. They reckon there's more out than there's in. All the same it's no excuse. I 'ad to 'ave the police up to 'im yesterday. That's twice 'e's gone for my Fred. Might've killed 'im. 'E'd no cause to go and light a bloomin' bonfire when 'e did. 'Ad to do all me washin' again.’

‘It's all very petty,’ Lillian replied stiffly. ‘And I'm sure that Ray will apologise in due course. It's my fault really, I should never have gone away and left him.’

‘'E won't apologise, not 'im.’ Elsie Walton suddenly lowered her voice. ‘Look, Lil, I'm not the sort to spread malicious rumours and gossip and I wasn't meanin' to say anythin' but …’

But, Lillian thought, that's exactly what you've made up your mind to do. She considered turning away and going back indoors. Something stopped her; female curiosity.

‘Yer know all about 'er, don't yer?’ Elsie Walton's voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, her head inclining towards the rear of the Davidsons' house.

‘I've met her once or twice.’

‘Oh, come orf it. Everybody knows about and what 'ergets up to. They calls 'er the Milden'all Strumpet. My Gawd, I wouldn't let my Fred get within ten yards o' the likes of 'er.’

‘You obviously haven't got much trust in your Fred,’ Lillian retorted.

‘I trust my Fred more than I'd trust your Ray!’ The reply came back like a whiplash. ‘At least 'e don't …’ Her voice tailed off meaningfully, her eyes narrowing. ‘Maybe I 'adn't oughta said nothin' in the first place.’

Lillian Tyler tensed, couldn't drag herself away, almost urging the other to part with whatever information she had gathered, true or false.

‘On the other 'and’ - Mrs Walton feigned a battle with her conscience – ‘Maybe I should tell yer, otherwise I'll be lyin' there at night worryin' meself to death because yer don't know what's going' on.’

Lillian waited.

‘Well, the other night, the night you was away’ - the older woman leaned forward, glancing furtively around her – ‘just as we were goin' to bed I 'appened to look out of the window. Not that I makes an 'abit of lookin' out to see what other folks is doin' 'cause it's none o' my business and I couldn't care less. Anyway, as I was sayin', I 'appened to look out of the window and what Should I see … it was bright moonlight mind yer … but your Ray was goin' through that there 'edge’ - she nodded again towards the Davidsons' boundary privet - ‘crawlin' through like a thief in the night. Then she opened the back door and let 'im in! It worried us a bit, I can tell yer. We thought maybe there was a reasonable explanation but later on, it musta bin well after midnight, Fred 'appened to look out and 'e seed your 'husband comin' back, crawlin' across the lawn like he 'oped nobody'd see 'im. Then all the dogs round about started 'owlin'. One was right under the window, frightened the livin' daylights out o' both o' us. There, maybe I 'adn't ought to've said, but . ‘ave and that's that. I just 'ope you won't say anythin' to your Ray because with things as they are and 'im goin' a bit nutty in the 'ead …’

‘I expect there was a perfectly ordinary reason for it all.’ Lillian dropped the remains of her cigarette on to the lawn and crushed it with her heel. ‘Anyway I must be going, I've got a lot of housework to catch up on after being away.’

Lillian just managed to make it inside before she burst into tears. Every nerve in her body trembled, her legs threatened to crumble beneath her. Then at the height of her solitary outburst she saw a dark blue Marina turning into the drive. There was no doubt in her mind that the two men who clambered out of it were CID officers. She offered up one single prayer - that Ray Tyler might just vanish from the face of the earth and never be seen again.

She made a supreme effort to pull herself together and went to answer the doorbell.

‘Well, that was nothing to worry about,’ Ray Tyler was smiling as he came back into the living room after having seen the two plainclothes detectives out. ‘Just a routine investigation. They're satisfied and so am I. So stop looking so bloody worried!’

‘Could I be anything else the way things are at present?’ Lillian spread her hands wide.

‘Jesus, everything's working out.’ He had decided during the course of his lengthy walk that the majority of his problems were solved; somehow he had passed the curse on to Henshaw even though the bank manager had not had time to receive the book before he died. ‘The bank will take me back. They'll keep me waiting, sure, not let me think I'm forgiven as easily as all that. Henshaw being dead will help. With him out of the way it'll be that much easier for the staff department to take me back.’

‘You're callous,’ she said. ‘It's almost as though you killed him!’

Maybe I did! If so I'm glad and a lot of other people will be, too. ‘Just forget all about it. Hell, if it wasn't for this stupid business of having to report to the branch every day I'd suggest we took a week away somewhere. What about a long weekend? We could go off tomorrow afternoon and so long as we're back sometime early afternoon on Monday there'd be no problem.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, fighting against another flood of tears. ‘I don't want to go anywhere, Ray.’

‘Please yourself.’ He turned away, thought about going into the garden and attacking some more of that lawn but already dusk was beginning to darken the sky. ‘Maybe I'll pop out for a drink later.’

She stifled a gasp but couldn't stop herself from turning to look outside across the length of the garden. The Davidsons' kitchen window was lit up framing Pat at the sink. Lillian's fists tightened. God, she'd never thought she could hate another woman so much!

Listlessly Lillian Tyler wandered about the house after Ray left. She tried to do some knitting but tossed it to one side after a few minutes. It was no good trying to read because her concentration was gone. Likewise she could not settle to the television, the sound jarring her nerves so that she turned it off.

She tried to think logically. It could be maliciousness on the part of Elsie Walton, deliberate lies. But she knew it wasn't. Beneath the gloating and hatred there was a ring of truth. Agreed Ray was ill, in need of treatment and might do just about anything. But there was a limit. She could stand almost anything but not that. Not Pat Davidson.

Her fingers shook as she sought solace in the form of another cigarette; to hell if Ray smelled the smoke when he returned. She'd tell him exactly what had driven her back to tobacco. And the sooner they thrashed this latest business out, the better. Whatever the consequences it had to be brought to a head. If their marriage was finished then the sooner they got it over and done with the better.

She crossed to the window, peered out between the closed curtains. Pat Davidson was still in the kitchen. Alone. But the night was young yet; it was barely eight o'clock.

It was some months since Ray Tyler had gone out drinking on his own in the evening. Suddenly the idea seemed foreign to him, worthless and time-wasting. He didn't really enjoy alcohol for alcohol's sake. Socially it was pleasant, something to do with your hands and a way of filling in gaps in the conversation. Like smoking.

He took another swig of his half of bitter in the smoke room of the Tam o'Shanter and grimaced. ‘Bitter’ described the drink to perfection. The idea of swallowing another half on top of this one was nauseating; the prospect of spending another ten minutes in this claustrophobic room with a smoke haze as dense as the old pea-souper fogs was terrifying. He glanced around through streaming smarting eyes. A group of elderly men were clustered in a corner playing dominoes, a nightly routine that had probably gone on for the last thirty years. Mostly the company was younger; the dartboard in full use, a game of crib. Others just drinking. Some had obviously come straight from the afternoon shift at the factory, not even bothering to go home and change out of their overalls. Maybe they wouldn't even bath or wash the oil and grease off their hands and faces before going to bed. Women didn't figure largely in their lives. This was their world. The pub.

The atmosphere sickened Ray Tyler. It all stemmed from a life of routine and boredom, asking nothing more than a strike now and then to relieve the monotony; so that they could have time on their hands, time to come in here and drink during the daytime. The bank, any tedious job, got you that way after a time. He was heading for it himself. He'd nearly broken free but he'd go back. He'd have to, to live. No, to exist. That's what living was all about, existing. Keeping yourself and your family alive until it was time for you to die.

He'd never make the ideal way of life. The opportunities weren't there. It was women that bogged you down in the first place, no doubt about that. In your teens life was rosy and girls were wonderful. You made all sorts of daft promises because they let you fuck them and you knew if you didn't pander to them they'd clam their legs shut tighter than an oyster or else find another guy. And before you knew where you were you'd fallen into the marriage trap. That was when your troubles started and you set out on the last lap of your journey that finished up in the grave.

Tyler tried to finish his beer but couldn't. Pushing his glass away he made for the door, had to push his way through the crowd to get out. Once outside he gulped in great lungfuls of cool fresh night air and thought about going home. The idea wasn't exactly appealing. It was too early for a start.

Lillian's attempts at reconciliation hadn't lasted long. He hadn't really expected them to. If he had screwed her last night it might have helped. Maybe and maybe not; she was only making the effort for a reason and it had nothing to do with enjoying sex. For most women opening their legs meant continued security, a man who would pay the mortgage and hand over the housekeeping on a Friday night. Lillian was no different.

He laughed softly to himself as he walked the pavements parallel to the Mildenhall estate. The only time in recent years when he'd got a real kick out of screwing Lillian was the other night. God, he'd enjoyed that rape, making her take it exactly as he wanted it. She didn't like it in her mouth but she'd damned well got it! It was much the same with Pat Davidson, a conquest, only somehow different. It was better still because you knew you were trespassing on another man's patch, poaching his game and savouring it.

It was some minutes before Ray Tyler realised just how aroused he was. He pulled up on the kerbside, stood looking back towards the Mildenhall estate as though the length of pulsating rigid flesh inside his trousers was the needle of a compass pointing the way he should go.

His step was slow, his brain a muddle of decisions that refused to slot into place. He hadn't intended to turn off into Tallis Road, stand gazing across at the Davidson house. The rear approach was the one he would have chosen had it been his intention to call. Yet why was he now treading a path up to the front door, pausing only to check that the garage was empty before ringing the bell? He didn't know and but for his erection it would have frightened him.

Pat Davidson answered his ring in a matter of seconds, a housecoat thrown lazily over a nylon negligee that was almost see-through but not quite. Sexier in fact because it just hid enough to make you want to see more.

‘You!’ She hissed, shock registering on her features. ‘How dare you come here! You're lucky I didn't call the police over last time. I could've got you sent down, Ray Tyler. You may still be if Ron asks too many questions about my bites and bruises!’

‘You enjoyed it while it lasted.’ Tyler laughed harshly. ‘Most women have their rape fantasies. I'll bet you've spent most of the day tossing yourself off and living it all over again!’

‘You're crazy!’ The door was slowly being pushed to, furtively so that he wouldn't notice it until it banged shut in his face. But it didn't get that far, suddenly checking within a few inches of the post, pouncing back. Pat Davidson stifled a little cry of horror, looked down and saw Tyler's obstructing foot in the gap, felt his shoulder starting to push the door open, forcefully shoving her back.

‘Now don't let's argue about it.’ He pushed his way inside, regarded her with a contemptuous smile. ‘You're starting to get all uppity again, making out you don't want me to come in whilst all the time you're eager for me.’

She wanted to yell. ‘That's a lie’ but checked her protest. He was dangerous, he might do something dreadful if she enraged him again. She was pale and shaking but somehow managed to grin. ‘I guess you're right, Ray. I always was one for playing hard to get.’

‘That's better.’ His hand reached out and closed over her wrist, just firm enough to let her know that it was too late to try and make a break for it even if she could get past him to the door. ‘Now, suppose we go upstairs. Beds are much more comfortable than sofas.’

She turned, led the way with him still holding her, her stomach churning with terror. Maybe if she cooperated and made out she was enjoying it then he would be fairly normal; she could always , call the police later. There were enough marks on her body to justify a rape complaint.

Into the bedroom, wincing as he kicked the door shut behind them, a dull thud that had an air of finality about it - we're going to be here a long time, sweetheart!

Then he was reaching for her, strong hands tearing at her nightdress, snagging it, ripping it open. She gave a little cry. ‘There's no need to …’

‘Isn't there?’ She cowered away as she caught a glimpse of his twisted lusting features. ‘You don't think I'm going to pussyfoot about sitting on the bed and holding hands do you?’

The flat of his hand caught her across the face and sent her reeling back on to the bed. The remainder of her nylon garment was torn into shreds, pulled from her body; he didn't even appear to notice the wealds and bruises from the last time. She closed her eyes. Oh take me and get it over with!

Then he was on top of her, clumsily unfastening; his own clothing but not bothering to undress, baring only that which was necessary for the fulfilment of his own crazed lust. She screamed as he penetrated her, a shooting burning pain like the time she had lost her virginity only far worse, the animal-like thrusting, the fetid breath almost stifling her as his lips pressed on to her own.

She tensed, writhed, tried to divorce herself from the relationship and told herself that it wasn't really happening, but there was no escaping the physical agony which brought with it the mental anguish. He was clawing at her, slamming his body down on top of hers, cursing profanely beneath his breath.

And then, suddenly, she realised that something was wrong. No longer were his thrustings hurting her, the hardness inside her seemed to have softened. It was some moments before she realised what was happening. Ray Tyler at the height of his carnal rape had lost his arousement!

‘Damn you!’ He was kneeling up, breathing heavily, looking down at her with unbelievable ferocity in his eyes. ‘You filthy bitch! So this is what you do to your lovers!’

‘I … it's not my fault,’ she sobbed and tried to turn her head but there was no way she could dodge the clenched fist which drove into her face. Pain flooded through her, she was sure her nose was broken, could feel the blood pouring from her nostrils, caught a blurred glimpse of crimson on the white pillowslip.

But Ray Tyler wasn't listening. His fury had erupted like a volcano that had smouldered and threatened for centuries, suddenly bursting forth its burning lava. His arms windmilled, fists like sledgehammer blows pounding her, a non-stop cyclone. She started to scream but it died in her throat. She could taste blood, broken teeth beginning to spill down the back of her throat, lodging there, choking her. Trying to vomit but there was no way the spew could get past the obstruction.

He pulled her upright by her hair, slammed a fist into her throat, a second on the side of her head, throwing her back against the wall. Consciousness slipped from her, swamping the pain, her body lolling, but he did not stop. Relentless punches, on his feet now, keeping his balance on the springy bed with difficulty, kicking her wildly. A frenzy that mounted and slowly simmered, only stopping when realisation filtered into his numbed brain.

Oh, Jesus Christ! She's dead!

Sobbing, more with fear than remorse at what he'd done, going down to her, kissing her bleeding limp mouth, knowing the futility of trying to resuscitate her. He tasted her blood, found himself sucking for more because the flavour made him heady, seemed to ease his fear. But in the end she fell back lifelessly, thumping against the headboard. And he knew without any doubt that it was all over; nothing could bring her back.

He sat there, head resting in his hands, trying to think, trying to force his brain to work. Logic filtered through the despair and panic. Pat was dead and he couldn't bring her back; that being the case he had to get rid of her and these bloodstained bedclothes, somewhere where they would not be found.

It wasn't easy, not on a conventional newly built housing estate where there were no convenient rivers, canals, half-demolished houses with crumbling cellars beneath them, or even a handy pigsty where the corpse could be chopped up and fed to the pigs. Nowhere …

Something came back to him, a half-thought that he had to grasp before it disappeared again into his confused mind. A year ago, it might have been two, one spring morning during a couple of days' leave from the bank he had wandered idly round the estate. The GPO were in the process of constructing a new automatic exchange to cope with the STD calls … a quarter of an acre of waste ground on the junction of the next street and this one, a triangular compound fenced off with barbed wire. He'd paused to watch the men at work, seen the old rusted manhole cover, and to make conversation he'd asked about it. He hadn't really been interested but his brain had stored the information until now. It was an inspection point for the existing sewer before the Mildenhall Estate had sprung up and required a network of sewage tunnels. The building contractors had had to bypass it, had left it there because it wasn't worth the expense of filling in … an underground chamber where nobody went, even the kids couldn't get at it because it was fenced off. Oh, Christ, it might just be the answer!

His fear was forgotten as he worked diligently, ripping off the bedclothes, wrapping them around the corpse. Fortunately the bloodstains were only slight, there had been no time for them to soak down to the mattress.

At last he was ready, amazed at his own strength, the way he lifted the body, carried it downstairs, eased his way out into the porch, listening to every slight sound that came on the night air. But Mildenhall was deserted, not so much as a late-night drunk staggering home from the pub. Fortune was smiling upon him at last.

It took him less than five minutes to reach the square brick enclosure that was the telephone exchange, crouching in the shadow of a conveniently planted beech sapling and then hurling his burden so that it cleared the top strand of wire and thudded into the mass of weeds and nettles on the opposite side. Then he moved swiftly, clambering over the fence, carefully using the spaces between the barbs for foot and handholds, searching frantically and gasping aloud with relief when he found the rusted iron cover. He tugged, broke some fingernails; and finally it yielded, a black yawning space beneath that smelled stale.

He gave a short laugh as he slid the enshrouded body into the musty square, heard it land with a sickening thud somewhere below. A resonant clang as the cover fell back into space.

Then he glanced up at the night sky, felt the glow of the silvery orb high above warming his flesh. And suddenly he bad no regrets at all. Everything was going to be all right.

As he came out of his reverie he found himself back at number eighty-seven. He let himself in, closed the door quietly. Another surprise; he'd expected to find Lillian in bed. Instead she was sitting on the settee in the living room doing nothing in particular, just staring blankly at the section of pine panelling around the fireplace. And it was obvious that she had been crying. A lot.

‘You're back early.’ Her voice was husky, her red-rimmed eyes not turning in his direction.

‘I didn't realise I was expected back late.’

‘What's the matter, did she kick you out?’

He tensed, stared at her, frozen into immobility in the act of taking off his coat. Guilt. Fear. All blending into hatred. It was more than just a jibe. She knew!

‘Who and what are you talking about?’ Somehow he managed not to scream at her, his voice low and terse, his fury all the more terrible for being forcibly contained.

‘Your girlfriend.’ Or, to put it crudely, the bird you're knocking off over the back. Pat Davidson!’

‘You've been listening to gossip.’ He managed to get his coat off, threw it at a chair but it fell back on to the floor.

‘There's been talk.’ She swung round to face him, visibly shaking with anger. ‘But I happen to know it's true.’

‘Sounds like a story put about by the Waltons. If I can prove it I'll sue them.’

‘You're just being childish. Come on, Ray, give it me straight. Are you having an affair with Pat Davidson?’

‘Hell, no.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘She'd be the last person in the world I'd have an affair with. If the two of us were the last survivors on earth I'd go and find somewhere to hole up on my own.’

‘Because she's jilted you.’ Lillian's tear-filled eyes narrowed. ‘She's given you your marching orders so you've crawled back home. You think it can just be passed off, forgotten, and life can continue as before. OK, I'll accept that right now you're not having an affair with her but you've been to bed with her, haven't you? On Tuesday night.’

It wasn't just perception on Lillian's part, he decided. She wasn't clever enough for that. It was the Waltons. They'd be dealt with. Tomorrow. He should've finished Fred off when he had the chance.

‘Yes, I went round to Pat's on Tuesday night.’ He took a step forward. ‘But I didn't go up to bed with her. Oh, no, nothing so nice and civilised as that. I raped her on the settee, just like I did you only I was one helluva lot rougher with her. I wanted to kill her.’ His voice was rising to a crescendo. ‘And God, I wish I had, not because I hate her but because I'd've enjoyed every second of her dying!’

Lillian felt her fear beginning to paralyse her, creeping and spreading over her whole body, leaving only her brain and her voice with which to defend herself against this madman who had once been an ordinary affectionate husband. Even as her terror mounted she supposed that Dillon's death had been the turning point in their marriage. That was when it had all ended. And now this! It was no good trying to reason with him. She ought never to have come back but it was too late now. She was here; trapped.

‘Well?’ His eyes seemed to film over, his hands unclenching slightly. ‘What are you going to do about it, Lil?’

‘You don't really want me, do you?’ She felt herself trembling in every limb. ‘Why don't we … just part amicably?’

He caught his breath, seemed to sway slightly and had to clutch at a chair for support. ‘I want you, though, Lil. Always have done although I didn't realise it until the other night. I've taken you for granted too long. We've lived almost like brother and sister. Now that's all changed. For me, anyway.’

‘What … what d'you want me to do then?’ She hardly dared voice the question.

He looked at her steadily, saw her body as it was beneath the blouse and skirt, how it had been that night. Desirable, everything any man could want. Something was wrong, though. Not with her; with himself. He tried to think what it was. Suddenly he knew. The lust which had seized him as he left the Tam o' Shanter was gone; no, not gone, changed. He'd been driven to Pat Davidson by some inner force that demanded a mating, animal-style. Rejected, he had accepted the only other alternative, a marital relationship. Now he didn't want that either, not in the way he should have wanted it. The sensations that had dominated and spread from the lower regions of his body had been replaced by another feeling, a much stronger one … one that frightened him!

He wanted to pummel her with his fists, disfigure her, squeeze her tender throat until she gurgled for him to stop, pleading with bulging eyes. Not because he hated her, because … he didn't really know why except that some inexplicable urge drove him on to do it!

‘Let's go upstairs.’ He tried to keep his voice even. It wasn't easy.

Lillian glanced wildly about her. Flight was out of the question. An old schooldays' saying came back to her, purporting to have come from some famous screen star of the fifties. ‘When rape is inevitable lie back and enjoy it!’ Obviously that personality had never been raped!

She got to her feet with a struggle, walked unsteadily towards the stairs, heard Ray following her, breathing heavily. The temptation was to plead with him, to scream if that didn't work, but she knew only too well that it would be futile. He was going to take whatever he wanted.

She heard him close the bedroom door behind him but did not turn her head. She didn't want to see his face. This time she would take her mother's advice, close her eyes and think of … oh, it would be impossible!

She was in the act of unbuttoning her blouse when he hit her, a blow that caught her between the shoulder blades knocking the breath from her body and sprawling her face downwards on to the bed. She cried out and then he was on her, ripping her clothing, punching her, pulling her over so that she was forced to look into his face … crazed eyes that blazed the very madness of his attack.

‘Ray …!’

Tyler's fist crashed into her mouth and as multicoloured lights blinded her vision she tasted blood. Now he was slapping her frenziedly, sitting astride her and baring her breasts, squeezing them with fingernails that cut and gouged.

Not a word came from his tightly closed lips. His eyes were glazed, nostrils flared as he breathed heavily. Lillian felt the rest of her garments being torn from her, his fingers pushing and probing roughly, hurting her so that she writhed in pain.

Ray Tyler was dimly aware of the blinding rage pumping madly inside him. They had done this to him. Pat and Lillian. Flaunting, teasing. Pat had already paid the penalty. Last night Lillian had tried it, secretly mocking him when he couldn't make it. She'd done it again downstairs; he'd been primed and ready when he'd come in and then she'd destroyed it all for him in the only way a woman knows how, delighting in depriving him of the ultimate pleasure, then adding insult to injury. Accusing him of infidelity. True or false, it mattered not. Fidelity was merely another facet of prudish convention. Women had one purpose in life; it was immaterial with whom they mated.

Roughly he dragged her from the bed by her hair. The bitch was screaming again; his foot hard in her stomach cut short her screeches. She fell to her knees. He pulled her upright, through the door and out on to the landing; kicked open the door of the lumber room.

Lillian felt herself being hurled inside, crashing into a pile of cardboard cartons and boxes which cascaded down on top of her. She lay there on the floor not daring to move, heard the door being slammed shut then the small bolt on the outside being rammed home. Ray had fitted that bolt when Dillon was first able to walk, screwing it up out of their son's reach. Its purpose had been to keep the boy from prying, somewhere to hide Christmas and birthday presents and other items which needed to be kept from him. Now its use was much more insidious. It made her a prisoner, small and light yet strong enough to hold her in here for as long as her husband chose.

She crawled from amidst the debris. Only a dim light filtered in through the single small window, a faint orange glow that came from the street light outside. She could have switched the light on but she didn't; she was frightened of what she might see. Her fingers sought the painful areas on her body, bruises and abrasions, swellings. Her lips and eyes were puffed up but her nose wasn't bleeding in spite of the force with which it had been struck. One of her front teeth was loose and her ribs ached.

God, he'd really gone over the top this time. She'd sue for divorce … if she got out alive. He might come back at any second.

She crept to the door and listened. Not a sound. He might have left the house but she was sure that she would have heard him go if he had. This attack was even more senseless than the last one; it hadn't even been a sexual assault. She'd been close to death, that much was certain. Even now he might come back and kill her.

She contemplated opening the window and screaming for help. Almost immediately she discarded the idea. There were few people about on the estate at this time of night and even if somebody heard her it was unlikely that they would be able to get to her before Ray. And then her husband would exact a terrible vengeance on her.

She believed him now about the three youths on the car park. Madness had lent him unbelievable strength. He craved for violence. No longer was she prepared to try and help him; he had gone too far. Her own safety was of paramount importance, to escape from here and call the police. Only when Ray Tyler was safely locked away would she be able to relax. At the moment, though, there was no immediate prospect of that.

She rummaged amongst the boxes and eventually found a couple of old sheets, which she had discarded weeks before, and wrapped them round herself. They were slightly damp but they were better than nothing.

Then, huddling herself into a ball, her body a mass of aches she settled down to wait for morning.

She must have dozed for suddenly a noise brought her back to full wakefulness. Trembling, she lay there in the darkness, wondering what it was that had disturbed her. What was Ray doing?

She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the sound of receding shuffling footsteps down the drive. It was the closing of the front door which had awoken her.

Lillian dragged herself to her feet and across to the window, peering out. She glimpsed a shape in the street below, passing from beneath a street lamp into the shadows, that of a man, hands thrust deep into the pockets of an imitation sheepskin coat, head bowed, not hurrying. She had no doubt that it was Ray Tyler.

Hastening to the door she tugged at the handle, but it did not open. She sank back down to the floor, her one brief moment of hope destroyed. She was still a prisoner. Ray had gone out for some reason and she had no doubt that he would return. That was what she feared most, for next time he would surely kill her! She began to sob and eventually drifted into an uneasy exhausted sleep.

Chapter TEN

Ray Tyler walked steadily in the direction of the city centre avoiding the brightly lit streets where possible. His head throbbed and he was having difficulty in piecing together the events of the last few hours. Vaguely he remembered calling on Pat Davidson but he couldn't remember what had transpired. Then there had been a quarrel with Lillian. He had no idea what it had been about except that when he had woken up he had been alone in bed. She had probably gone back to her mother's. Well, she might as well stay there. Meanwhile he needed time to think. And it wasn't easy.

Once he paused beneath a street light and examined his hands. The skin was smooth. His chin was covered with a rough growth of stubble but that was because he hadn't shaved. Relief, at least he had not undergone the change. Something was wrong, though; the feeling that he had to hide himself away. He hated people. Yet for some reason he was heading directly into the heart of a densely populated area.

That burst of hatred like an explosion in the depths of his brain was receding. Something else was taking over, a familiar compelling feeling. ..the animal urge to mate again!

He slunk through the subways passing once to look at some sleeping dropouts, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. He could smell the meths on their breath. Moving on, clambering up on to the pavements above, scurrying, afraid of being seen. The streets were deserted, the brightly lit shop windows giving the scene an eerie atmosphere; a deserted world where Man no longer ruled, awaiting decay to set in. Religious fanatics were forecasting such happenings frequently. Maybe at last one had come true.

Tyler pressed himself back into a shop front, saw two policemen go by on foot. They were laughing and joking, not even suspecting his presence. He felt relieved when they had passed on.

Searching, not really knowing what for, pandering to his basic instincts. The city had an air of friendliness about it at this hour, he decided. It was his domain. He passed the bank where he had worked for so much of his life without even recognising it.

It was in the empty bus terminus that he came across the girl. In all probability he would not have noticed her except for the glow of a cigarette in a shelter making him pause and stare into the blackness.

‘Hi.’ The voice was young, friendly. ‘Out late aint'cher? There's no more buses till six, y'know.’

He moved to the entrance and stood looking in, a shaft of orange light displaying a fair-haired girl in her early twenties curled up on a seat as though she had every intention of spending the night there. Attractive in a rough sort of way, he thought. A friendly sort of slut.

‘I'm not interested in buses,’ he replied.

‘No, I don't suppose you are.’ She grinned and patted the seat by her. ‘Come and sit down for a minute if you ain't in a hurry.’

As he lowered himself on to the bench beside her she pinched out her cigarette, depositing the remainder of it in the pocket of her long frayed coat. ‘It gets lonely 'ere at nights … sometimes.’ A giggle. ‘But when you've got no 'ome you can't really complain, can yer?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He found himself leaning across her, her lips upturned to meet his, her tongue thrusting forward even as they made contact. Her fingers started to explore him, a little grunt of satisfaction escaping her at what she found.

‘Why don't we go down to the memorial park?’ she whispered. ‘It's kinda private in there. No chance o' being disturbed. They never lock the small side gate.’

He stood up, pulling her up with him. He noticed how small she was, maybe not even five feet.

‘You don't look the type to be 'angin' around town at this hour,’ she said as they moved off, Tyler's arm around her.

‘Don't I? What types hang around town at three in the morning then?’

‘Scum mostly. They're not even interested in finding a woman for themselves. All they want is drink. Meths mostly. They'll do anything to get it. What are you doin' out at this time, mister?’

‘Just mooching. No real reason. Fed up mainly.’

They walked on in silence until they came to a small wrought iron gate set in a thick copper beech hedge. The girl pushed it and it creaked open. ‘See?’ A little laugh. ‘No bother. There's a shelter somewhere over there where we can go.’

It was similar to the shelter on the bus terminus, a concrete three-sided structure, a wooden bench. Immediately adjacent was a square of closely cut grass just visible in the orange-tinted gloom of the surrounding city. Ray Tyler thought that in all probability it was a bowling green. On balmy summer evenings people sat here and idly watched the games in progress. Not that bowls had ever interested him. ‘Snug, ain't it?’ She edged closer to him.

‘What's your name?’ He asked suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘Just interested.’

‘Oh, I see. Mary. What's yours?’

‘Ra…lph.’ He corrected himself just in time. ‘Ralph Smith.’ They started to kiss again, this time more passionately than before. Suddenly Tyler tensed, drawing back, listening.

‘What's the matter?’ Mary asked in alarm.

‘I don't know.’ A low whisper, his head cocked on one side. ‘Thought I heard something. A movement … like somebody's out there.’

They both listened but apart from an owl screeching some distance away there was no other sound.

‘You must've imagined it.’ Mary laughed with relief. ‘Probably some animal. There's always cats in this park.’

‘Probably a cat then.’ Tyler's lips went back to her, his hands beginning to smooth her body, undoing the buttons of her coat.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell yer.’ She gasped and flinched a little. ‘I 'ave to make a charge. Just a small one. I 'ave to live, you know.’

Ray Tyler didn't reply. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. A muzziness, a singing roaring sound in his ears, the feel of warm female flesh.

‘For Christ's sake what's the matter now?’ She raised herself up on an elbow. ‘I told yer it's probably only cats.’

A sudden push sent her back full-length on to the bench. The hands which had only seconds previously been caressing now scraped and scratched.

‘Hey! What d'you think yer doin'?’

‘Shut up!’ He slapped her across the mouth.

‘Oh, Gawd!’ She started to cry. ‘Look, I didn't really mean it about a charge, not in your case … Ralph …’

‘I said shut up.’ He grasped her by the hair and banged her head hard on the seat. ‘Another sound and … and I'll kill you!’

She trembled, knew he meant it. This was the risk she ran, always thought it couldn't happen to her. He hadn't looked the type, that was why she had called out to him in the bus terminus. She was usually a pretty good judge of men, knowing the types to avoid. There was always the chance of making a mistake, though. And it was now clear to her that she had made one!

It was no good struggling. She wasn't strong enough, anyway, and there was also the added danger that she might infuriate him still further. The only alternative was to humour him, go along with him however kinky he turned out to be and hope that everything would be all right in the end.

And then she felt strong fingers encircling her neck, starting to squeeze her windpipe. She writhed, kicked, punched at him wildly but he didn't seem to notice. Sheer terror, slipping slowly into a yawning black abyss. Floating.

Tyler was breathing heavily, trembling. He lurched towards the entrance of the shelter, looked out. Somebody had moved quickly back into the shadows, rustling the foliage in the dense shrubbery … still there watching him … waiting.

He glanced about him, running wildly, somehow finding the gate and falling out into the street. Lying on the pavement. Trying to remember …

Hazy recollections like distant dreams eluding him as fast as they came back. Something had happened between himself and Lillian; a quarrel more violent than usual. He couldn't remember the outcome or even what it was about, only knew that he had to get home. Fast.

Half running through the empty streets, dawn beginning to blend with the orange lighting. A small queue of cars at the traffic lights on the ring road, shift workers setting out to start their day of monotony. Frustration mounted inside him as he waited for the lights to change to red so that he could cross.

A few pedestrians were appearing now, congregating at bus stops, canvas haversacks slung on their shoulders. Several glanced in Tyler's direction as he passed, stared after him. Damn them, what was so unusual about being abroad at an early hour? They bloody well were, weren't they?

The light was coming fast by the time he was in sight of the Mildenhall estate. Cars were slowing, heads turning. Fuck them! Guilt and fear uppermost in his mind now. Running, wanting to hide.

Thank God, in his own house at last, slamming the door shut behind him! He felt the weakness flooding over him, urging him just to sink down on the hall floor and give way to exhausted sleep. Still trying to remember … something dreadfully wrong …

A banging from upstairs, frantic. He started for the stairs, pulling himself up by the rails, falling to his knees on the landing.

Bang … bang … bang …

Looking around, seeing the door of the lumber room vibrating, someone pulling on the handle from the inside. Dillon! No … Dillon's dead … dead … dead.

Almost sobbing, flinging himself at the handle then seeing the bolt above shot home. He tugged it back, pushed the door inwards. Somebody was flung back by the impact, clutching a torn and soiled sheet around her naked body. Lillian!

‘Lil! Whatever …’

‘Ray!’ She cowered away from him. ‘Don't come near me. Don't touch me. Please!’

‘But, Lil.’ His arms were outstretched towards her. ‘I …’

‘Ray, how could you do this to me?’

‘Me?’ He stared at the swollen lips, puffed eyes, the multitude of bruises. ‘I didn't … do this … did I?’

She watched him carefully, saw the horror and amazement in his eyes, the sheer disbelief which served to temper her anger and fear. ‘You did it to me, Ray, every single cut and bruise.’

‘Oh, my God!’ He covered his face with his hands, sunk to his knees. ‘Why, for God's sake, why?’

‘I don't know and clearly you don't.’ She thought about trying to squeeze past him, her resolve to flee at the first opportunity. Her husband's remorse was genuine, there was no possible doubt about that. Those were real tears running down his face. Dejection, sinking further into the murky depths of whatever mental illness assailed him. Her vows of revenge and divorce proceedings were melting already. But he had to have treatment. No two ways about it, whether he consented or not, she should phone Doctor Daniels.

‘You need …’ Her voice faded as she noticed the state of his clothing, the mud plastered on his trousers, dried blood on his hands. ‘Ray, where have you been? How have you got blood on your hands?’

He gazed stupefied at his hands, spreading them, turning them over and over. Blood that had long since dried blended with an accumulation of dirt. Wiping at the stains, spitting on his fingers as though it would erase whatever nightmare he had been subjected to. Finally he looked up at Lillian and cringed visibly, mutely asking her a host of questions that sprang to torment his fevered mind.

‘First we'll get you cleaned up.’ The sheet fell away from her exposing some large abdominal yellow bruises. ‘I'll run a bath. Then we'll get Doctor Daniels to look at you.’

‘No! For Christ's sake, no! I'm all right!’

‘No you're not and don't argue. You're ill, you're dirty and you smell like … like you've been bedded down for the night with animals!’

‘It's impossible. I'm cured. I got rid of the book and the curse with it!’

She checked an angry retort just in time. Arguing was pointless. It might enrage him again. ‘Yes, of course you did. I expect it's something else, overwork, strain …’

‘No it isn't, I know. But the moon isn't full so I can't have undergone the change! That's what's so terrible. I don't bloody well know why!’

‘Don't worry about it. Just get out of those filthy rags whilst I run the bath.’

‘Promise me you won't ring Doctor Daniels whilst I'm in the bath.’

She sighed. ‘I won't ring him because it's only a quarter past seven and he doesn't start his surgery until nine. Now are you satisfied?’

He nodded, hauled himself up to his feet and started to undress.

‘There you are.’ Lillian appeared a few moments later, a nylon housecoat hiding the worst of her injuries. ‘The bath's ready. Now get in it and relax.’

He nodded and she watched from the doorway as he lowered himself into the water and then lay back, closing his eyes.

She stood there for two or three minutes anxious to see whether his eyes would open again. They didn't. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, an exhausted slumber.

Softly, slowly, Lillian Tyler closed the bathroom door and cursed beneath her breath because there was no exterior bolt. Then she tiptoed downstairs and consulting the telephone directory almost feverishly she began to dial Doctor Daniels' home number. Her conscience screamed out at the breaking of a promise but with an effort she ignored it.

Chapter ELEVEN

The bathwater was almost cold when Ray Tyler finally roused himself, blinking in the early morning sunlight which streamed in through the opaque window. Oh, God, what was Lillian up to? He almost slipped in his haste to get out of the bath, dashing on to the landing without bothering to dry himself.

‘Lil?’

‘Oh, you're out of the bath are you?’ She appeared in the hallway below dressed in a yellow jumper and Levis. Apart from the bruises on her face there was nothing in her manner to suggest the terror which she had undergone throughout the nocturnal hours. ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

He stared in amazement, the water running down his naked body and soaking into the fitted carpet.

‘How long have I ….?’ he began.

‘Best part of an hour. It'll do you good to relax. Anyway, as I was saying, what would you like for breakfast?’

‘Oh, something light Cornflakes and toast will be fine.’

‘Hurry up and get dressed then. I'll put the toast on.’ She turned back into the kitchen. Even such a short period of acting had been a trial. Furthermore she didn't appear to be getting anywhere. It was as though everything was loaded against her. Doctor Daniels had been out on an emergency. Something had happened up town, his wife had said. Lillian got the impression that it wasn't just an ordinary routine callout. Something terrible, a priority.

‘Shall I get him to call you back when he comes in?’ Rene Daniels sounded concerned. ‘I don't know how long he'll be. The trouble is Doctor Brereton has had to go with him so I can't do anything at the moment. What's the trouble anyway?’

‘I … I'd rather you left it for me to ring your husband.’ Lillian couldn't take her eyes off the bathroom door at the top of the, stairs, scared that it might open at any second. ‘It's not a … a matter of life and death exactly but … look I'll ring Doctor Daniels later on after surgery.’

That was how it had been left. Not very satisfactory. But all the same she had done something positive. She replaced the receiver quietly and consulted the directory again. Grant … Gratton … Greatorex S. She almost dialled but hesitated. It was a big step, might cost a lot of money, even for a distant relative, a cousin twice (or was it thrice?) removed.

She returned to the kitchen and made herself a coffee. God, her whole body ached, her lips were so swollen and sore that drinking was painful. She hadn't seen Sid Greatorex for some four or five years, not since he had parted company with the investigation agency in town and set up on his own. A funny sort of guy, not many people liked or trusted him but she supposed that went for most private detectives. Ray had only met him once and said he was the lowest of the low. But it was a job that somebody had to do; proof of adultery had to be procured for divorce cases, long outstanding debts had to be collected. It wasn't a nice job, not the kind to engender an all-round popularity.

She didn't need him really. Her bruises were enough to win her any divorce proceedings. It wasn't just that, though. She had to know what her husband got up to on those nocturnal ramblings. Sure he'd been with Pat Davidson but she was certain that was only a ‘one-off’. There was more to it than that, she felt, not even so simple as a midnight hunt for street prostitutes. Then there was this business of Ray's memory lapses. They had a ring of truth about them. Maybe she'd wait on Doctor Daniel's advice first. If he couldn't throw any light on it then it would have to be Sid.

Ray Tyler appeared in the kitchen dressed in his best casual jacket and grey flannel trousers. He'd shaved, even used some strong-smelling aftershave lotion. He almost looked relaxed as he began pouring milk on to his bowl of cereal. Lillian helped herself to another coffee and went through the motions of eating toast. It wasn't easy trying to put on a relaxed air. The tension surged back in waves. She'd never get last night out of her system. If he'd raped her it would have been a lot easier to understand. But he hadn't. He had just attacked her; sex didn't figure in it. It was a meaningless assault. To her, anyway. Possibly Doctor Daniels would be able to come up with some explanation but she doubted whether anybody could explain that!

‘I'll go in to town and make my daily report,’ Tyler said as he finished his last slice of toast ‘Anything you want while I'm there?’

She stared in surprise. Usually he complained at being asked to pick up some trivial household item on his way back from the office. ‘I can make a list out if you really …’

‘Why not? The day's my own and you don't appear interested in a long weekend away. Weather looks promising. Maybe when I get back I'll spend an hour or two digging some more of that lawn up.’

Lillian Tyler busied herself with a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. She had difficulty in concentrating; it would have been far easier to have popped down to Cawthornes' Stores on her own later. However, a shopping expedition might serve to delay Ray in town, finding his purchases in a big supermarket, waiting in a queue at the checkout. Time in which she could have a chat to Doctor Daniels, may be get something sorted out. Time was her most valuable commodity at present.

She stood watching him back the Viva out on to the drive, wanted to rush headlong for the phone the moment he drove off, pour everything out to Daniels. Or Sid Greatorex. She forced herself to wait. The truth would be unpleasant whichever way it turned out. Their marriage was already on the rocks. She just hoped that she wasn't around when Ray was finally made to face up to the truth, when all the mysteries were unravelled.

Ray Tyler parked in a shoppers' multistorey car park. Nothing would induce him to go anywhere near the big council one. Carrying a shopping basket he felt pleasantly domesticated, he didn't know why. It was something he'd never done before. It was a sort of release from his fears albeit a temporary one.

The bank first, putting on an air of arrogance as he went to the side counter and rang the bell. There was no sign of either Brownleigh or Anderson in the main office. One of the typists saw him, blushed a deep red, and came towards him carrying the Attendance Book in her hand, just pushing it through the grill towards him, open at the appropriate page. He scrawled his signature and turned away. It had been easy today.

Outside once more he quickened his step in the direction of the huge new shopping precinct. He had meant to buy a paper anyway but it was the placard which a news vendor was just affixing to the side of his booth which brought Tyler to a sudden stop, had his stomach muscles knotting.

‘CITY'S SECOND KILLING IN TWO DAYS, RIPPER-TYPE ATTACK.’

Tyler had no recollection of handing over some money, pocketing the change. He only knew that he had the midday edition of the paper in his hands, fumbling pages which tried to escape from his grasp in the wind. Searching frantically down the columns, not really knowing why. In the end he found what he was seeking in a few sentences in the Stop Press column:

‘City's second killing in two days. Young prostitute found mutilated in park. Police investigating. No details known.’

Tyler walked on, folded the paper and dropped it into his, basket. Something … something was nagging, screaming at his memory but it couldn't get through the fog. Fear of the unknown, an urge to flee, to hide.

He found himself on the edge of the Square, a contrasting acre of cobbled courts struggling to blend with modern architecture, the big supermarket dominating the scene with its gaudy windows decorated with special offer pennants attempting to lure the housewife to buy last week's surplus stock at last week's prices. Monday would see yet another all-round price rise.

Henshaw was dead. So was an unknown girl. Maybe the killings were related, the same gang … Tyler shook his head. It wasn't his concern. It wasn't! That voice inside him contradicted him again. It was! It was a chain in which he was a link. A jumble of thoughts which he could not collate, vague incidents that came and went like scudding clouds across the face of the moon. The moon! He couldn't seem to get it out of his mind. But that was crazy unless …

He contemplated calling in on Doctor Daniels on his way home but changed his mind almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Doctors scared him, one never knew what they might find once they started looking. But Tyler had not got a specific illness, nothing he could go in and complain about. Just some lurking fear at the back of his mind that he couldn't quite come to terms with. His memory seemed to be failing him. That was it! Amnesia. Nothing serious, it happened to lots of people and came right again, mostly the cause was worry or overwork. Somebody had killed that hussy, ripped her up, torn her apart like some savage animal; somebody maybe who right now didn't remember a thing about it.

Cold fear flooded him in a lather of sweat, weakening his legs so that he could hardly walk; faces staring at him. You did it, you're the one!

He cringed but nobody came to apprehend him, almost crept into the supermarket and helped himself to a basket. He had difficulty in finding Lillian's list (his memory again) and when at last he found it the writing seemed to shimmer so that he couldn't read it. Red spots before his eyes, like blood! And there had been blood on himself earlier. It had not come from his own body because he had searched diligently for recent cuts in the bath that morning and found none. Someone else's then. Whose?

His vision steadied, he found that he could make out Lillian's neat handwriting. And people had stopped staring at him.

‘Of course you can talk to me in complete confidence, Mrs Tyler.’ The silver-haired man with the drooping moustache and pink complexion lowered himself into the armchair and smiled reassuringly. He needed a relaxing half-hour after all he'd gone through that morning. He didn't relish the pathologist his task. You saw some awful sights from time to time in the course of a GP's duties but not even that pile-up in the fog on the motorway the winter before last could in any way compare with what remained of Mary Jones.

‘It's about Ray.’ Lillian Tyler twisted her fingers together, stared at them, realised how Judas Iscariot must have felt when the skies began to darken. ‘He … isn't himself. There's something … dreadfully wrong with him.’

Doctor Daniels nodded. He'd already noticed her facial bruises, the way her lips were puffed, the swollen left cheek. It was a common enough story on the Mildenhall estate. He hadn't expected it to happen in the Tyler household, though. They were too ‘respectable’; that was a word which had become outdated. Nobody was really ‘respectable’ today. Some just put on a better front than others.

‘He's been suspended from the bank. He hit the manager on Tuesday.’

‘Henshaw?’ Daniels had read about the mugging but the bank manager hadn't been one of his patients. In many ways he was glad.

‘Yes. I never liked the man personally but that's neither here nor there. The trouble started last Monday night. Ray had a brawl with three yobs on the car park. I didn't believe it at the time but I know now that it's true and he sorted them out.’

Daniels didn't believe it, either, but he did not interrupt.

‘Then … then …’ Lillian knew she was blushing deeply. ‘He went out for a walk, came back and raped me!’ She had difficulty in keeping her voice under control as she recounted her husband's violent outbursts, the trouble with the Waltons, the way she herself had been beaten up last night. On second thoughts she decided not to go into Ray's association with Pat Davidson. It wasn't really relevant; more than that it reflected on her own sexual failings. ‘The worst of it is he doesn't remember much about these fits of violence,’ she concluded. ‘He's got some strange idea from a book that he's a werewolf and that he's been running about on all-fours when the moon's full.’ She wanted to laugh, felt she ought to, but didn't trust herself to try, blushing again because she felt foolish. Doctor Daniels would understand, though.

‘It's a problem, certainly.’ The GP studied his carefully manicured hands. ‘Not an uncommon one and not necessarily a serious one. The cause could be very complex and even after treatment and cure it's not always possible to discover exactly what. It's known medically as lycanthropy.’

‘Lycan…?’ It sounded like some horrific form of plague to Lillian Tyler.

‘Lycanthropy,’ Daniels explained. ‘is a form of mental illness in which the patient is convinced that he is a werewolf. It is more common on the continent than in Britain. A person suffers hallucinations mainly and it would seem that this is one illness from which your husband is suffering.’

‘One?’

‘Basically, from what you tell me, and taking into consideration these lapses or part-lapses of memory, the trouble seems to be schizophrenia. Which in layman's terms is a disturbance of the emotions and irrational thinking. It's the most common form of psychosis and from what you tell me your husband is in need of urgent treatment. Shock therapy used to be the usual treatment but nowadays patients are given tranquillisers and drugs such as fluphenazine. However, Ray will need to see a specialist at the earliest opportunity.’

‘And how do we bring that about?’

‘I can arrange it once I've had a look at him.’

‘I don't mean that, Doctor. Ray absolutely refuses to see a doctor. I've suggested it already.’

‘Schizophrenics are often troublesome in the early stages. Perhaps you could persuade him gently to call round and see me.’

‘This is what would happen again if I did.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she pointed to her facial disfigurements. ‘He's not safe to be with, Doctor.’

‘Hmm!’ Daniels placed his fingertips together. The Tylers were hardly the type of people on whom to ask the police to make a call. ‘Perhaps if I just ‘happened’ to call round on some pretext when he was at home the matter might be resolved more easily and he would talk to me.’

‘I don't know, I'm sure.’ Lillian remembered how Ray had reacted to the Waltons interference in his obsessional ways. ‘Look, Doctor, I'll try and speak to him about it again tonight.’

‘Very well.’ Daniels glanced at the clock on the mantleshelf and stood up. ‘You do that, Mrs Tyler. But please, if you're at all concerned, no matter what time of the day or night, telephone me and I'll come right away.’

‘Thank you so much, Doctor.’ She moved towards the front door with him, her hopes already fading. ‘I'll be in touch shortly.’

Doctor Daniels pursed his lips as he got into his car. Another case of the pressures of modern life proving too much for the frailty of the human nervous system. Tyler might have a nervous breakdown; in all probability it had already begun. It wasn't as serious as some though; not like the guy who had killed Mary Jones. Any man who could perform such atrocities had plummeted to the depths of depravity. Ray Tyler's was a mere mental disorder that required some readjustment. Routine treatment, really.

The moment the door was closed Lillian could not find the strength to fight the tears any longer. Sobbing, she rushed into the living room and flung herself on to the settee. Doctor Daniels had done no more than confirm the helplessness of her own position.

It was twenty minutes before the outburst had had its fling. Only then was she capable of going back into the hall. She consulted the telephone directory, checked Sid Greatorex's number and dialled with a finger that was remarkably steady. Lycanthropy or schizophrenia, some tangible steps had to be taken if she was to retain not only her own sanity but her safety.

And Sid Greatorex seemed the only possible solution.

Ray Tyler had already made up his mind on the short slow drive home what he was going to do. There was no other way out. Not now. The girl in the park … he could not be sure. But there was no doubt this time. Pat Davidson had asked for what she'd got; they might never even find her. But he couldn't take any chances.

He did not bother to drive into the garage, instead leaving the car parked on the drive. He would never drive it again, anyway.

He let himself in through the kitchen and stood listening. The house was silent.

‘Lil?’

No answer. Maybe she had gone down to Cawthornes' after all. Or to her mother's again. It didn't really matter which. He only needed a few minutes.

He put the shopping basket and his coat on the table and made for the stairs, his step quick, almost breaking into a run. For God's sake get it over before anything else goes wrong.

He stopped on the landing, checked the other bedrooms to make sure that Lillian wasn't by any chance upstairs and breathed a sigh of relief when he found that they were empty. He stepped into the bathroom, pushed the bolt home and tested it just to make sure. It was more of a conventional item that insured that your visitors didn't blunder in and catch you sitting on the pan with your trousers round your ankles than to prevent someone breaking in. They'd have no trouble smashing their way in to get to him. But by then it would be too late.

He was sweating heavily as he opened the small medicinal cupboard. His fingers shook as he searched amidst the clutter of cosmetics and embrocations, eventually picking out a small brown bottle which rattled. Aspirins; less than half full but there should be enough. He hoped so anyway. The way his luck was going at present he stood every chance of fucking it up.

He unscrewed the cap, crossed to the washbasin, gave a short laugh. It hadn't occurred to him before, it was such a goddamned mundane place in which to end it all. They might find him lying with his head in the lavatory pan where he'd spewed his last. Ignominious, to say the least, but what the hell did it matter? He wouldn't be around to hear them laughing. He'd have the last laugh, especially on the police.

Another thing, just what did an overdose do to you? Just made you drowsy so that you went to sleep and didn't wake up? Nothing very difficult nor unpleasant. They said drowning was also a nice way to go. The end product was the same.

There wasn't any life after death. Once you were gone you were gone. Heaven and hell was a cunning ruse, propaganda put about two thousand years or more ago that did the job of a massive law-keeping force; live the good and dull life and you'll be looked after, transgress and you'll have the hairs singed off you for eternity. In most cases it worked and always would except for a minority of rebels. It prevented anarchy far more efficiently than any army or police force could hope to do. Scare the shit out of the people and they'll eat out of your hand. Bishops were generals really. They sent their missionaries into uncivilised lands to tame the wild tribes, promising a land of milk and honey in return for good behaviour. It was the most cunning ploy Man had ever propagated for his own ends and by the time you discovered the con trick it was too late; you were dead!

Tyler popped a white tablet into his mouth, held it on his tongue. It tasted bitter. Soluble aspirin would have been better. He could have crushed a bottle of them up, spliced it heavily - with strong fruit cordial and maybe even enjoyed his last drink. Never had mastered the art of swallowing pills; they stuck in your gullet and made you heave. One he could usually manage, sometimes two; he tipped the contents of the bottle into the palm of his left hand and began to count them. Forty-three. Jesus, forty-three swallows, a slug of water to wash each down. Forty-three heaves. He'd never make it. He thought about tipping the contents of the bottle down at one go but discarded the idea as quickly as he had considered it; he'd spew the lot all over the floor like some crazy game of tiddlywinks. There had to be other, more practical ways.

Drowning then. The bath was there, he only had to get in, turn on the taps. His mother had always impressed upon him that one could drown in a couple of inches of water. No doubt that was true. He shuddered, remembered his early childhood swimming lessons. Never could stand water up above his chin. Fought and spluttered like hell. That's what would happen again as soon as the level rose; he'd be spouting like a whale.

What about gas? That was supposed to be pretty painless. You just stuck your head in the oven, turned it on. He laughed, a hollow sound, recalled last Christmas when Lillian had bought a leftover turkey out of the market. Twenty pounds. Getting it in the oven was problem enough, shutting the door was even worse. How the fucking hell did you manage to get your head inside and keep it there until the fumes overcame you? You'd either collapse from a twisted neck or a pulled back muscle.

Some people cut arteries. The wrists were the favourite ones, razor blades the sharpest and most convenient weapons. Ugh! - You had to stand there and watch it until it was all over. Your, blood spouting like Eros reflecting crimson Christmas fairy lights. Most of those who tried this method ended up by screaming for help, getting an eleventh-hour blood transfusion and ending up back at square one.

Hanging didn't even warrant serious consideration. Too much of an art. The weight, the knot, had to be just right and, anyway, modern houses didn't provide a suitable gallows. The light fittings weren't strong enough.

It wasn't as easy as you thought, Tyler reflected. And, besides, there was something else to consider. Werewolves didn't die, they became vampires. The book said so. Fucking rubbish! Maybe, but by the time you found out it was too late.

Slowly he began dropping the aspirin tablets back into the bottle, spilling the last few and having to pick them up off the floor. He held on to the wash basin, sweating so that his shirt stuck to him. Christ, it was impossible, every escape door barred to him. He went slightly dizzy and wondered if he might have blood pressure.

Face up to it, you're just too scared to go through with it, no matter what the method. If you're honest with yourself you never really intended to commit suicide. Just went through the motions thinking how convenient it would be if you could do it. But you can't.

I didn't kill that girl. Yes, you did and you know it. You had her blood on you when you got home and you almost always lose your memory during a frenzy.

Even as he replaced the bottle in the medicine cupboard he knew that there was a way out. Just one alternative: flight! Run like the wolf you are, get away from your hunters before it is too late. Find somewhere to hole up.

By the time he had reached the bottom of the stairs his mind was made up to leave. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, to slip away unnoticed; to vanish for ever from the Mildenhall estate.

He found a small holdall and began packing a few essential items into it. He knew that this time Lillian would not be returning. It was better that way, for both of them.

Chapter TWELVE

It was late evening before Ray Tyler finally left number eighty-seven closing the back door behind him and peering around the garage to ensure that the way was clear. A man walking a small dog passed along the bottom of the drive and Tyler waited for some minutes until the other had passed on.

Ray Tyler moved out, experiencing a strange sense of wild freedom as he turned right and headed away from the city. Twenty minutes and he would be in suburbia; an hour would find him in the rural fringe which bordered the north side of this densely populated conurbation. He had considered taking the car but the risk was too great; it was too easily traced. Far better that he went on foot, left no tracks to be followed. He who travels fastest, travels alone, a saying he'd heard somewhere.

He didn't give the parked Escort on the opposite side of the road a second glance. The man slouched behind the driving wheel was immersed in a newspaper struggling to read the small print by the light of an adjacent street lamp. People often waited in parked cars for other people on the Mildenhall estate during the evenings. Some were eager boyfriends awaiting girlfriends, anticipating a night of pleasure. Others, like Sid Greatorex, had more sinister issues at stake.

The detective eased his bulky frame back and studied the departing figure of Ray Tyler in the interior mirror. Greatorex waited, hand on door catch until his quarry had turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Then, with surprising agility he leaped out, locked the car door and hurried in pursuit.

Greatorex was approaching fifty, bald, florid complexion, and wore a. double-breasted suit beneath his raincoat, not because it likened him to a character of the Bogart era but because he had always worn that style. Like his father in the police force before him, the step into enquiry work seemed a natural one after the official force no longer had need of his services. It was one way of showing the boys in blue that you were not too old for active service. They didn't like you and you didn't like them, but that did not destroy a healthy respect for each other. The game was much the same whoever played it and success never lost its sweet taste.

Sid Greatorex had to hurry to keep Tyler in sight. The bank clerk was walking fast and obviously had some definite mission in mind. Strange he was heading away from town. The detective smiled and wished that he had a chance to slow up and light a cigarette. At the moment, though, he needed every puff of wind he could muster.

Across the ring road, veering to the left, south of Richmond Way. No, Sid decided, a woman in ‘Millionaires' Row’ wasn't Tyler's style. You either had to be filthy rich or look like Clint Eastwood to get in favour there.

Now the street lighting was more sparse and Greatorex broke into a fast trot to narrow the gap between him and his quarry. It looked as though they were heading into open country and in the darkness it was easy to lose your man. The detective's pulses were racing; he hadn't been engaged in a pursuit like this since he had left the Force. Every so often the man in front pulled up as though uncertain of his surroundings, then started off again.

Ray Tyler was relieved once he left the street lighting behind. The night was still and calm, a myriad of stars providing enough light to see his way, the hedges on either side of the road starkly outlined against the night sky. Spasmodically a car passed by and he found himself veering as far as possible on to the grassy verge and turning his head in an effort to shut out the dazzling lights.

So peaceful. He was almost relaxed. A totally different world, so near yet so far from the busy city, the sounds of civilisation a mere hum somewhere far away. He should have made the break before, just walked out of the house like he had done now, leaving everything to look after itself. Lillian would be all right. She didn't need him any more than he needed her. This was the only way to do it. He understood why so many reputedly wealthy men had taken to the open road in the past. You lost your, identity, escaped the pressures of life at the top and your only responsibility was to yourself. Sleeping rough was a natural way of life once you got used to it. No doubt it would be cold and uncomfortable to begin with but he'd stick it out. All the same he needed to get as far away from here as possible whilst he still had the chance. By tomorrow or the day after they would surely be hunting him. Some careful thought must be given to his destination. Perhaps he would be too conspicuous in a tract of wild open country and there was greater safety amongst a densely populated community. Tyler didn't fancy the idea; he wanted to get away from people. On the other hand his freedom was more important.

Maybe … and it was an intriguing idea … if he headed south to the popular seaside resorts he could lose himself amidst an influx of holidaymakers. Easter was only a week away, the season would be beginning already, and under cover of the bank holiday crowds he would be able to do some useful reconnaissance. He had enough money to last him for some time; in a way Fate had lent a hand last week when he had drawn out the entire balance of their joint building society account. The bank's deposit account rate was three per cent higher than the society's and he had intended to take the cash to pay into their bank account but somehow it had been overlooked and had remained in an envelope in the dressing table drawer. Fortunate indeed. Now the bulky wad of notes reposed in his inside pocket, a comforting feeling as he walked. A man with no overheads could make five hundred pounds go a long way.

And then, suddenly, he knew that he was being followed. It was instinct more than anything else, the feeling that he was no longer alone out here in this open stretch of countryside bordering suburbia. No telltale sound on the narrow lane which he was following, nothing except a creeping sensation that goose pimpled his skin. It couldn't be, they hadn't had time to pick up his trail yet. But somebody had!

Tyler slowed his pace pondering on a course of action. He wasn't frightened, in fact he almost welcomed a confrontation of some kind with the enemy - a fellow human. But there must be no slip-ups.

On his right he saw an open field gateway, an expanse of pastureland yawning invitingly, sloping gently downwards to where a spinney nestled in a hollow at the bottom. He grunted to himself and turned off the road, walking almost casually, his only fear that his pursuer might lose him and fail to be lured down to the battleground below.

Now he could hear whoever it was following him, the faint breeze carrying the sound of heavy breathing to his ears. Tyler was amazed at the acuteness of his own senses, his own obvious physical fitness in contrast to that of the man who trailed him. The latter was out of breath, walking heavily now with tired legs.

Sid Greatorex followed the hedgerow down the field, twice catching his coat on the single strand of barbed wire which had been staked out to prevent livestock from foraging and finding gaps in the straggling blackthorn. Once the wire twanged as he freed himself and he hesitated, afraid that the fugitive might have heard him. Then he spied the moving black shape seventy or eighty yards ahead and he was satisfied that Ray Tyler was totally unaware that he was being followed.

The detective set off again, this time walking a yard or two out into the field. The other was heading towards the small wood at the bottom. In was strange, indeed, and had Greatorex realised at the outset what this particular mission was going to entail he would have turned it down. Most of the men he followed led him to orthodox comfortable houses where a woman awaited them, where he could watch from the comfort of his own car. He did not doubt that Tyler had come here to meet a woman but it would be difficult to obtain the incriminating evidence in such surroundings, no lighted bedroom window which would serve to presume adultery. Instead darkness all around, dead twigs that would crack to betray a hidden watcher. Greatorex didn't like it at all. Nevertheless, he had to go on; he had come too far to go back.

Tyler was surprised how much he could see beneath the towering Scots' pines, a thick carpet of pine needles enabling him to move almost silently. A rhododendron branch brushed his face and made him jump whilst somewhere nearby a barn owl screeched its protest. Something scurried, probably a mouse. Then all was silent. He eased himself up against a huge gnarled tree trunk, taking up a position so that that part of the wood from which he expected his follower to come was faintly silhouetted against the starlit skyline; and waited.

Within five minutes he saw his pursuer: a big man who moved awkwardly, nervously looking about him all the time, stopping to listen. Tyler's muscles tensed. He had no idea who the man was except that he was an enemy. Only one of them would leave this wood!

Sid Greatorex licked his lips. He was sweating heavily. He didn't like this at all. It was stupid really. Often during his time in the Force he had hunted criminals on the run, his pursuit taking him into deserted timber yards, warehouses, and once he'd gone down an old railway tunnel after a fleeing burglar. He'd never given it a second thought then. But somehow this was different; the loneliness, the absence of help if it was needed, advancing years that slowed up his reactions. Frightening if you stopped to think about it. All the same, Tyler wasn't a criminal; he just had another woman somewhere and his wife needed proof so that she could divorce him. Everybody was at it these days, a bit on the side that they hoped nobody would find out about. No harm in that … until somebody did find out!

The detective was grateful for the bed of pine needles. Once he felt a twig snap under his foot and cursed silently. No point in blundering about like a lost elephant; just listen and sooner or later they're bound to give themselves away. Keep quite still …

Time passed and in spite of his training Greatorex began to grow impatient. Suppose the other wasn't still in the wood, had merely passed through it. But there wasn't anywhere else to go. Just open fields until you came to the dual carriageway a mile and a half away. Tyler had to be here.

The wood was only a small one. A few rhododendron and bramble brushes, nowhere really to hide. Sid Greatorex stood there, hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat, sensing defeat mocking him. But he couldn't shake off the atmosphere of uneasiness. Something was wrong, something he'd overlooked, been blinded by the obvious, something … dangerous …

He was on the point of turning away and dejectedly retracing his steps when a blow from behind caught him on the base of the spine. He staggered forward, screamed in agony, knew instinctively that it was a foot, a kick with every ounce of the attacker's weight behind it, aimed unerringly at that part of the human anatomy where it was possible to cripple the victim instantly. Soccer hooligans were past masters at these cowardly Kung Fu tactics. If they got you, you didn't stand much chance.

Greatorex hit the ground, felt its springiness like a trampoline, bouncing, writhing; pain that spread like electric shock waves, paralysing, shredding every tiny nerve. You bastard, you've busted my spine!

Lying there looking up at the starry sky through the gaps in the branches, a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours that dazzled, blinded, then faded. A man was standing looking down on him, just a faceless silhouette but he knew it was Tyler. Laughing softly.

‘Look … I …’ Greatorex struggled to speak.

But Ray Tyler was not waiting. He jumped, a movement which seemed to the injured man on the ground to be in slow motion, both feet clamped together, knees bent. Going up. Coming down!

The force of the impact was almost sufficient to crush the detective's chest. An explosion within his body that sent a red flash up to destroy his vision; pain as though a Zulu assegai had been jabbed into his side.

There was no respite. Tyler leaped and came down again, this time on Greatorex's abdomen, feeling it squash and move beneath his weight. The man was groaning and jerking; had neither the breath to scream nor the muscle power to roll away.

Ray Tyler stepped back and watched. Blood trickled from the detective's mouth and nostrils. His chest was heaving as though a pair of giant bellows was inflating it. Strangled pleas came from somewhere in his throat.

Tyler thought about jumping again but changed his mind even as his ankles, came together and his legs braced in readiness. This guy, whoever he was, wouldn't be going anywhere under his own steam; he wasn't even capable of yelling for help. And time was valuable. The night was slipping away; there might be others on his trail.

He turned away leaving the spinney at a fast trot, keeping to the hedges like a hunting stoat that does not cross open ground until it reaches the point nearest to its intended prey. He didn't know who that guy was or why he'd followed him. The fact that he had was sufficient.

Back in the lane Tyler walked quickly. Valuable time had been wasted now that he had decided to flee south. He needed an arterial road and transport. He spied the lights of the dual carriageway in the distance and broke into a steady lope.

The transport cafe standing in the centre of the waste ground was full in spite of the lateness of the hour. Ray Tyler felt uncomfortably conspicuous as he pushed open the door and heads turned towards him. Drivers in oily overalls were seated at the Formica-topped tables devouring greasy fry-ups and drinking strong tea from chipped and dirty mugs. A jukebox blared out from the corner and some scruffy-looking girls were playing the fruit machines. Tyler's gaze ran from one to the other. Prostitutes, the kind who lived in juggernauts, travelling from one end of the country to the other trading their bodies for food and shelter. Real scrubbers.

‘Yes, sir!’ A smiling fat bald-headed man dressed in a grubby white overall greeted him from behind the counter.

‘Tea, please.’ The bank clerk was aware that all eyes were on him, everybody mutely asking the same question. ‘What the fuck's this jerk doing in here at this time o' night?’

‘That'll be fifteen pence.’ Stubby fingers were held out in readiness for the money. There were two tariffs on display, one headed ‘transport’, the second ‘others’. The proprietor had already classified his latest customer.

‘I'm looking for a lift.’ Tyler handed over a couple of coins, had to shout to make himself heard above the scratched record.

‘Where to?’ The ‘sir’ was dropped, eyes narrowed. If you weren't wearing a monkey suit they were suspicious of you at once.

‘Down south. A start will be a help.’

‘See the red-haired man in the corner.’ A hoarse whisper that was as loud as any shout. ‘Try 'im. 'is name's Joe.’

Tyler moved across the sawdust-strewn floor leaving a trail of tea spots in his wake, holding on tightly to the holdall with his other hand. The feel of the money in his inside pocket was reassuring.

‘Joe?’

‘Yeah.’ The man looked up from his paper, a mass of freckles covering his coarse face, somehow managing to balance an inch of ash on the end of the cigarette which protruded from the corner of his mouth. ‘That's me. What can I do for you?’

‘I'm told’ - Ray inclined his head back towards the counter - ‘that you might be able to give me a lift down south.’

Silence. Driver and cafe proprietor were exchanging glances. It made Tyler feel uneasy. Perhaps he ought to try and hitch with a private motorist.

‘Where to exactly?’

‘I'm not all that bothered.’ Don't be too explicit, you're only leaving a trail of clues in your wake. ‘I'm just … getting, away from it all for the Easter holidays. Hitchhiking.’

‘I see. Well I'm stopping off in London tomorrow.’

‘That'll do.’ Anything to get away from here!

‘Sit down, drink your tea, look the girls over. I won't be leaving for twenty minutes yet.’

Giggles from the whores by the fruit machines. Tyler was determined not to look at them. Dirty cows, they ought to be …

‘There's a bloody Ripper on the loose round 'ere, I see.’ The man called Joe held up a creased and chip-stained edition of the evening paper. Tyler almost felt the main headlines leaping out at him in some kind of Monty Python extravaganza.

‘POLICE LAUNCH MASSIVE HUNT FOR SEX KILLER. WARNING TO STREET GIRLS FROM CHIEF CONSTABLE - STAY INDOORS AFTER DARK!’

Tyler was aware of his vision blurring, a faint sense of giddiness. The whole world seemed to come to a stop. The record clicked off on the turntable, the girls had ceased giggling. Just the scrape of cutlery on crockery. Otherwise silence. For Christ's sake, everybody, stop staring at me. I didn't do it!

Yes, you did. And now you're running for your life!

He nodded, sipped his tea, grunted. ‘Nasty’.

‘Them kinda things don't 'appen on the trucks.’ Joe stubbed the paper with a thick forefinger.‘Cause we respect 'em. The bloke who did that ought to 'ave 'is dick cut off and pickled in vinegar.’

The jukebox was going again. Thank God! Tyler took the paper, he didn't have any option as it was thrust between his mouth and his mug of tea. The small print seemed to hypnotise him, ‘… second violent killing in a week but a police spokesman denied that there was any obvious link between the two crimes. A sharp knife had been used to dismember the dead girl …’

I didn't do it! I don't remember …

You're a murderer. A sex maniac.

I don't have a knife. Never carried one. Never use one!

‘Drink you tea up.’ Joe pushed his chair back. ‘I'll just see if any of these young ladies are interested in a trip down to the Smoke.’

Ray Tyler shuddered. But his fears were short-lived for the driver was already coming back, hands outspread, shrugging. ‘They're goin' to Bradford. Looks like you and me'll be on our tod …’

‘Ralph.’

‘OK Ralph, let's get crackin'. There's a semi-final on at Highbury tomorrow and the roads are liable to be a bit crowded, to say the least, towards mornin'.’

Tyler had never ridden in a lorry before. After the initial bumpiness and lack of basic comforts it gave him a feeling of power; not his, but he was a part of it, the huge steel monster roaring its way through the night, invincible, threatening to crush any car which was foolish enough to linger in its path.

‘Where you from?’ Joe seemed to relax, the driving seat an armchair, the controls surprisingly light to the touch. And it was obvious he liked talking; which was why he was only too eager to take a passenger along.

‘I live in Scotland.’ Tyler regretted his impetuous answer the moment he gave it. ‘Dumfries.’ He'd been there for a holiday once. He hoped Joe didn't know the place.

‘The stamping ground of old Robbie Burns.’ Joe laughed. ‘Dirty old ram but at least 'e didn't do 'is women no 'arm. Yeah, I know Dumfries well. Had a regular contract run last autumn hauling seed potatoes. Where abouts d'you live?’

‘I doubt if you'd know it.’

‘Try me. There's few places old Joe ain't bin.’

‘You know the river?’ Tyler knew there had been a river there, a wide one with a weir where you could watch the salmon leap and the gulls all congregated.

‘Whitesands.’

‘Sure.’ Jesus, I hope he isn't testing me out. I haven't a clue what it's called.

‘Which part.’

‘Top side.’ This is getting ridiculous.

‘Along by the Chinese restaurant?’

‘It's a good place to eat.’

‘They served up shit last time I was there.’

‘Maybe the chef had an off-day.’

Tyler was sweating; trembling, too. This guy was the sort who wanted to know everything about everything, had got two of anything you had and had done better at anything you had attempted. He thought about feigning sleep. In fact, if he leaned back and closed his eyes he might even doze off. No, this driver didn't want sleeping company. He'd keep you awake no matter what.

‘What d'you do for a livin', mate?’

Oh, Jesus Christ! One trouble with banking was that you didn't know much about anybody else's job, only how much they earned and spent. I'm redundant at present.’

‘From what?’

‘I haven't worked for some time.’

‘Clever, uh? More money on the dole.’

‘No. I haven't worked for … for medical reasons.’

‘Oh. Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘I'll live.’ Maybe, if I can get away in time.

‘Family?’

Ray Tyler shook his head. Just his luck to jack up with some busybody like this. Worse, the fellow was actually interested in what you replied; might even remember what you'd said. Sure, Officer, he told me he came from up north but I knew he was lying. Don't ask me why, I could just tell. Yeah, I know where he was goin'. I can even tell you what he was wearing.

Oh, shit!

Tyler must have slept because the next thing he remembered was opening his eyes and finding the lorry parked in a narrow street with tall warehouse-type buildings on either side. Daylight had broken and a fine drizzle was spraying the windscreen.

There was no sign of the driver. Ray Tyler eased the door open and still gripping his holdall jumped down on to the pavement. Deserted, not a soul in sight.

He walked to the end of the street and as he turned the corner into the adjacent one he noticed the telephone kiosk with the latest full-length glass door. There was no mistaking the red-haired man inside jabbering into the instrument and gesticulating wildly with his free hand.

Joe, the lorry driver, might have been complaining bitterly to his employers for a score of reasons. On the other hand he might not. There was no way of knowing without mastering the art of lip reading at a distance of thirty yards or more.

Ray Tyler backed away out of sight. And then he broke into a run.

Chapter THIRTEEN

‘And you haven't seen your husband since early Friday, Mrs Tyler?’

Lillian Tyler raised her head, stared through eyes that ached and smarted because the tears wouldn't come. Detective-Sergeant Brett flicked his lighter and drew hard on the cigarette. She couldn't imagine the policeman in any other role in life, a TV cop blueprint that walked and breathed. If he had feelings then he certainly didn't show them. He wasn't paid to. Just the facts, ma'am. Give us the facts. Nothing but the facts.

Clean-cut, square-jawed, he'd have suited either a uniform or civvies. He had COP written, all over him. A hunter of men. Ruthless. Never gave up.

‘He went out and I stayed around a bit, then when I thought of everything that had happened I decided to go back to my mother's. I've no idea where he's gone.’

‘You hired this man Greatorex to follow him?’ She almost felt the official's contempt for the private eye. You should've come to us in the first place, Mrs Tyler. Not that we're interested in domestic quarrels.

‘Yes. I wanted to find out where Ray was going at nights.’

‘Well, we know for a fact that he attacked Greatorex and inflicted injuries …’

‘Oh, my God. No!’

‘I'm afraid so. Also, Mrs Tyler, we have proof now that your husband was in a park shelter where the woman Mary Jones was found dead.’

‘No. Oh, no! It can't be!’ The living room was spinning round. She clutched at the arms of the chair, wished that she could be sick. She wanted to die, to be whisked suddenly away from this nightmarish world.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Tyler.’ Brett glanced half apologetically at the young officer with him who was busily scribbling on a notepad. ‘But we have to face the facts. Your husband must be traced at the earliest opportunity.’ Before he attacks and kills anybody else.

‘I don't ever want to see him again.’ She meant it.

No, but we do. ‘Nevertheless, we've got to find him. Have you got a recent photograph of him?’

‘I think so.’ She stood up, felt dizzy, her brain reeling she made it to the sideboard and foraged in the top drawers. ‘This one was taken about a year ago.’

‘Hmm.’ Brett studied it, saw a typical bank clerk in casual wear, not smiling. ‘This should serve our purpose.’

‘Which is?’ A question she hardly dared to ask.

‘It'll have to be reproduced, circulated to ever Force in the country.’

‘The Press?’

‘That, too, I'm afraid. It happens a lot. “Police wish to interview this man in connection with.” ’

She bit her lower lip, had to hold on to the back of a chair. ‘Wanted for Murder.’ Everybody knew what it meant.

‘Has he got any money on him, any considerable quantity, I mean?’

‘I couldn't say. Not unless he's drawn out of our accounts. He did mention transferring our savings from the building society to deposit account because of the interest rate.’

‘We'd better check on that right away.’

‘Sergeant.’ She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘I've already spoken to the doctor about the way Ray's been behaving lately. He said it's known as …’ She had to think hard to remember the word. ‘Lycanthropy.’

‘Lycanthropy?’

‘An illness where a person is convinced he's a werewolf.’

The two policemen glanced at each other. The younger one almost laughed. Only his superior's warning glance checked him. Manhunting was humourless, had to be kept that way.

‘The doctor said also …’ She was determined not to feel foolish, not to be ridiculed. ‘… also … it could be … schizophrenia.’

Detective-Sergeant Brett did not reply. This was neither the time nor the place to tell a woman that in all probability her husband was a psychopath!

There was no time to be lost. They had to pick up Ray Tyler before he killed again!

The run rose high into a cloudless blue sky in time to glint on the shining metal of the first line of vehicles winding its way down the narrow coastal road. A coach had broken down on a bend and some of the larger vehicles were having difficulty squeezing by without scratching paintwork on the overhanging shelf of rock.

Many of the boarding houses still had ‘vacancies’ signs hanging in their front windows. Hoteliers were optimistic; for once the weather forecasts had been correct. Warm and dry, outlook similar. By afternoon the promenade and beaches would be crowded.

The Easter holiday was running true to pattern. Good Friday heralded the arrival of the hardy regulars, those who braved all weathers (kidded themselves and everybody else that they didn't give a damn for the elements), a nucleus of campers and caravanners which might or might not be built upon. It all depended upon the sun.

A few more arrivals on Saturday, the not-so-hardy element (those with common sense), but when the sun dipped behind the hills to the west in a golden radiance which promised more of the mixture and the same as before, the teeming hordes on Sunday were a foregone conclusion.

Ray Tyler had managed to snatch a couple of hours' sleep on the coach. He needed the rest; it also served to prevent the loud-mouthed woman sharing his seat from incorporating him in her conversation. She had no time for modern youth, her declaration on this subject resulting in an apple core being thrown from somewhere at the rear of the vehicle. It had missed her and struck Tyler on the side of the face. After that he hadn't been able to get back to sleep, just sat with his eyes closed, a chance to review his position.

So far so good. He contemplated leaving the coach during one of the many holdups and making his way on foot for the rest of the journey; they could see the sparkling blue sea in the bay down below less than a mile away. It was unlikely, though, that the police were operating roadblocks yet. Not just for him, surely.

It was ten o'clock when the coach finally eased on to a crowded council park, the driver announcing that they would be leaving at 5.30 and anybody who wasn't on board would be left behind. Tyler smiled to himself as he alighted. He'd never be going back; this was the end of the road for him.

First he needed accommodation. Get settled in, then decide upon a new way of life. The possibilities were many: a candyfloss or ice cream stall, hotel work, anything. Even beachcombing. He didn't know, didn't want to think about it yet. A few days' holiday meantime, learn to relax, see what's going and watch the papers.

On impulse he chose the best hotel, an impressive five-storeyed Georgian building which frowned over the noisy holidaymakers in much the same way that the fat woman on the coach had done, disapproving, remembering better times. Carrying his holdall he entered the foyer, his confidence boosted by the feel of that wad of banknotes in his inside pocket.

‘Good morning, sir.’ The man with the clipped moustache in reception might have been the manager relieving the regular receptionist, he had a sort of condescending air about him. I shouldn't really be doing a menial job, I hope you understand that.

‘I'd like a room,’ Tyler said. ‘For three or four days. Might even stop the whole week if the weather holds.’

‘I see, sir.’ Sizing him up with eyes that missed nothing. ‘And your luggage sir? Shall I send somebody out to bring it in for you?’ Staring at the holdall.

‘No, no.’ Ray Tyler was beginning to get the hang of providing instant answers to unexpected questions. ‘I don't have any. You see, I'm cheating a bit. Supposed to be hitchhiking round Britain, writing a book on it, but there comes a time in every man's travels when a little luxury does not come amiss. I'm quite happy to pay in advance.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Money made all the difference, didn't matter if you arrived wearing a fig leaf so long as you had the ready cash. ‘I've got a couple of single rooms still vacant, not with sea views unfortunately but I can let you have one at twenty-five pounds a day, dinner, bed and breakfast.’

Tyler grunted his agreement. The use of the first person confirmed his suspicions that he was talking to the manager. ‘I'll take it for three days and review the position according to the weather.’

‘Very good, sir.’ A key attached to a long plastic fob was reached down from a row of hooks. ‘Room number forty-one if you'd like to go on up. The lift's over there. Oh, and perhaps you'd kindly sign the register.’

Ray Tyler lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Never before had he been in a position such as this. Luxury, total freedom. Ray Tyler was dead; he'd died five minutes ago, breathed his last as a new name was scrawled in the hotel register. Gavin Hendry had just been born. Made up on the spur of the moment just like that. It was all rather satisfying.

He closed his eyes, decided to finish that deep sleep which a misdirected apple core had interrupted on the coach. There was no hurry. His time was his own. Later on, possibly this evening, he would go out and take a look round.

Ray Tyler had met Mandy down by the harbour just as dusk was falling. He had been leaning on the railings staring down at the water when suddenly she had moved in alongside him almost like she was a harbour hussy trying to pick him up. His first reaction had been to ignore her, to move away. But he hadn't. She was the kind of girl a man on his own didn't just walk away from.

There were a lot of things he hadn't intended to do; like accepting an invitation back to her place. And now that was exactly where he found himself.

‘The Imperial?’ Mandy raised her eyebrows, stretched out her shapely legs on the couch in such a way that he did not doubt the quality of what lay beneath the faded and torn jeans. Her checked blouse had a button missing so that part of her bra was visible. Yet her long dark hair and her features were the epitome of perfection, a few freckles thrown in as added spice.

‘Why, what's wrong with the Imperial?’ Tyler sat on the hard-backed chair in the untidy makeshift studio and watched her carefully.

‘It's all kippers and curtains.’

‘Kippers and curtains?’

‘Sure.’ A little laugh that reminded him of a mountain stream rushing over boulders. ‘They draw the curtains so nobody can see in and then serve up kippers for dinner.’

‘As a matter of fact we had steak tonight.’

‘Lucky you. I fried up the leftover chips from midday.’

He tried to check his rising sympathy. You could find yourself feeling sorry for ninety-nine per cent of the holidaymakers here if you got talking to them. ‘You paint a good picture.’ He transferred his gaze to the half-finished oil painting on an easel behind her, recognised the approach to this resort, the way he had come in.

‘I could do better if I had more time. My last one sold for thirty quid at the souvenir shop round the corner. Old Barsby keeps half. This one's got to be finished and sold by next Wednesday otherwise I won't have any rent money and I'm two weeks behind already. I guess it'll be chips and warmed-up chips for the next two or three weeks.’

‘You rely just on your painting?’

‘I wouldn't want to live any other way. Christ, I gave up a five and a half thousand job to come here. It's your freedom that counts, not the money. That and doing what you like doing best. What d'you do, Gavin?’

‘Nothing.’ Wasn't anybody ever interested in anything except what you did. ‘I just took off, left everything.’

‘Your wife too?’

‘Yes.’

‘I had a boyfriend once. He didn't understand either so I thought it was time I jacked everything in.’ She reached across to the table and opened a small cigarette tin. He saw three or four uneven loose white cylinders inside. Home-rolls.

‘I don't smoke.’ Tyler held up a hand as she offered the box. ‘Gave it up a week ago.’

‘Stupid. They're joints. I couldn't go on without them. Just a drag now and then. You've got to when you can't afford much else. Go on, try one. The first one's always an experience. After that you get to know what to expect. These ones are good and strong - almost like LSD.’

He hesitated.

‘Go on.’ Her dark eyes sparkled. ‘Take one and try it later if you like.’

Tyler took one, rolled it between finger and thumb, almost dropped it. It excited him, frightened him. Something he'd read about, never thought he'd come into contact with. He lit the joint and took a deep draw on it.

‘Mind you don't get caught with it.’ She smiled. ‘Else you'll be moving out from the Imperial.’

‘Where … where d'you get 'em?’ Now it was his turn to try and satisfy his curiosity.

‘Ah-hah.’ She mocked him with her eyes. ‘For all I know you might be a cop trying to smash a seaside junk racket.’

‘I assure you I'm not. I hate cops.’

‘So do I, and strangely I believe you. There's a guy round here you can get your stuff off if you really need it. If you've got the money.’

‘I might call round tomorrow.’ Tyler stood up.

‘Make it after seven then.’ She grinned. ‘I must put some time in on this picture. Oh, and if you fancy a change of digs I'll warrant the Studio Hotel is a lot cheaper than the Imperial. With a private housekeeper thrown in.’

‘I'll think it over.’ He sensed a familiar sensation creeping in on him and wanted to get back to his hotel room before it took over. As he said, he wanted to think things over carefully. ‘See you tomorrow, around eight probably.’

As he returned to the Imperial the tall man was still sitting in reception. Maybe it really was his job and he just liked playing at manager to break the monotony.

Lillian shouldn't have been here but she was. That was all there was to it. Like the proverbial bad penny she had turned up once again; not just to this south coast resort but here in room forty-one, standing just inside the door watching him.

Tyler lay on the bed and cursed himself for not having locked the door but it wouldn't have made any difference because he would have answered her knock anyway. He wasn't going to be able to throw her off his trail now. Ever. There was nowhere else to run.

‘You killed that girl.’ Just a statement, not a reprimand.

‘No. No. I didn't.’

‘Don't lie. The police are hunting you.’

He closed his eyes, tried to shut her out. He couldn't. Funny how he could see her in this darkened room whether his eyes were shut or not. He swung his legs to the floor, sat on the edge of the bed. He thought maybe it was a dream but everything was real enough. Even Lillian.

He was sweating, though; almost as bad as if he had a fever. He drew his hand across his damp forehead, felt the roughness of his skin … and knew! Oh, Jesus God!

He jerked his head away, held up his hands, saw the coarse hair bristling in the skin, the fingernails elongated, jagged and razor sharp. Saw his reflection in the mirror on the washstand; ears long and pointed, powerful jaws wide and slavering, eyes glowing redly as the fires of malevolence were stoked from within. And Lillian Tyler didn't seem to notice, just stood there looking at him, even managing a faint pathetic smile. Come back home, Ray. I want you to.

Get out, Lil. Get out whilst you still can. Because I hate you for everything you've done to me and I'll kill you if you don't go!

‘You did kill that girl, didn't you, Ray? You can tell me because I'm your wife and I'll understand. I know you did it because you've been ill. I'll help you. I'll hide you from the law. Maybe we could go away somewhere and start all over again, really rediscover ourselves. It's all because of Dillon isn't it? That's what made you …’

Dillon … Dillon … Dillon … Dillon's dead!

Tyler felt the roar gathering in his lungs, powering up into his throat, numbing his brain with its sheer ferocity. Muscles bulging, responding, legs bracing like a coiled spring, then hurling him forward.

His leap took her with him, pinning her to the wall, her scream cut off at birth as his fangs sank into her exposed tender throat; holding her upright with his jaws, claws slashing ferociously, the flesh coming off in long crimson ribbons and entwining around his feet.

The kiss of death; drinking, savouring her life's blood as he drew it from her, staring into those hazel eyes and still finding love there. For God's sake hate me! Hate me, you bitch!

But she didn't. A glimmer of remorse because they'd both failed. Then love again. Immortal love that even his claws and fangs could not erase. Then another feeling. Guilt! It was the shame which finally precipitated him into the bestial fury which surpassed everything that had gone before. Shame because he was what he was. And as such he reacted to the primordial instincts, the killing urge which was almost insatiable; ravaging because his misshapen body cried out for human flesh and blood.

Finally, he stepped back and watched as she slid to the floor, strings of torn flesh snapping under her weight like gaudy crimson party streamers. She sank down, the head twisting round so that it looked up at him. Dead unblinking eyes which still retained their message of love and sorrow.

Tyler tried to step away, tottered crazily as the dizziness swept over him, reached for the wall but it wasn't there. Falling … falling. Faster … faster. Bracing himself for a bone shattering impact. Then just floating, landing gently on a feathery surface. Lying there as the blackness engulfed him and blotted everything out.

Tyler was lying on the bed when consciousness returned slowly like a grey winter's dawn struggling to break. He was bathed in sweat, the bedclothes beneath him damp and sticking to his body. His flesh was smooth again.

The sudden awful realisation. Struggling to a sitting position, croaking through cracked lips, the swollen tongue refusing to function. Lillian! She wasn't there. Nothing. Not a sign of a struggle, no blood. Just a neat and tidy hotel room with nothing out of place.

He was weak but he made it to the tap and got his mouth under it. As the cold water revived him he knew that he'd just come down from his first drug experience.

And it had been a bad one.

Chapter FOURTEEN

Ray Tyler's photograph was on the front page of most of the dailies. He did not dare go into a newsagents' to buy a paper nor was he going to risk stealing one from an outside rack. Towards midday he picked up a discarded copy of the Mirror on one of the harbour benches, holding it as a schoolboy might surreptitiously read a forbidden comic during class.

‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ Beneath it was the photograph Lillian had taken of him some months ago in the garden with her old Brownie 127.

He went on to read the lengthy report, skimming through it because most of it consisted of a description which Lillian had undoubtedly supplied plus a rehashed account of what had happened to Mary Jones. She'd been savaged. That could have been his work. Then dismembered. No, he didn't use a knife, never carried one, always used a pair of scissors at the bank for cutting string. But the police hadn't found the weapon and in all probability they never would. So if he was picked up the law would presume that he had deposed of it.

Tyler had to make sure that they didn't catch him. Survival was a priority. Which was why he wasn't going back to the Imperial. That fellow in reception was the type to sit and read every paper right through and in that case he'd put two and two together pretty smartish. Funny that he hadn't been traced as far as London. Possibly that lorry driver was still in total ignorance concerning his Friday night passenger and the phone call he'd made had had nothing to do with it at all. Ray Tyler had just panicked.

Mandy's bedsit-studio seemed the answer to his most pressing problem. She'd told him last night she never read newspapers.

Tyler moved away from the seat, dropping the paper into a nearby litter bin, and leaned on the railings staring down into the harbour. A small motor launch was being unloaded from a trailer on the narrow concrete ramp, people clustered around watching. Several more gaily painted crafts bobbed on their moorings; a larger launch was just leaving, churning up white foam in its wake, overloaded with passengers whose main interest in life at present was a trip round the bay. The Easter holiday had begun in earnest. Nobody had the time to worry about a prostitute who had died two hundred miles from here and the man who was responsible for her murder.

Ray Tyler glanced at his watch. Mandy had said don't come round before seven because she'd got to try and finish that picture. But staying here was a risk. Maybe he ought to drift away into the hills beyond and return after dark.

The hills were surprisingly low and flat once you got to the top, a kind of moorland plateau that stretched as far as the eye could see, the far horizon obliterated by a film of mist which heralded a continuance of the high pressure.

Ray left the main paths following winding sheep tracks which took him away from the scattered hikers. A grassy knoll, dry enough to lie back on, a good vantage point. Time to watch, to think.

Those nocturnal hallucinations had been bad. Nothing to do with the curse though. That fix had done it; he still had more than half of the pinched-out cigarette in his breast pocket. The logical thing was to throw it away, grind it into the soil with his heel. But he knew he wouldn't. He'd smoke the rest of it sooner or later. Probably sooner. Tonight maybe.

His train of thought led him back to the book. It seemed that it left the curse in its wake, had possibly done so over the years. Werewolves had been born and died under the guise of common murderers, homicidal maniacs. Like himself! Where was the book right now? With Henshaw's sudden death it was probably still at the bank. Unless it had been handed over to his widow. Probably nobody would give it a second glance; a volume which the bank manager had sent away for and now was no use to anybody. It might even end up back at Rowley's bookshop gathering dust on the shelves whilst awaiting its next victim. Lurking latent evil.

The sun passed its zenith and started to dip in the west bringing a chill to the atmosphere. Those people on the beach would be reminded that summer had not yet arrived. Far away Tyler caught the strains of pop music. That would be the fairground starting to welcome an influx of holidaymakers from the beach, rows of slot machines ready to receive a fortune in small change.

Funny, Tyler thought, he didn't feel hungry in spite of not having eaten since breakfast and even then he had had to force himself to swallow the bacon and eggs and toast. Christ, he'd never get the foul taste of Mandy's joint off his palate. She was a strange girl, a cut above the ordinary hippy; she had talents which she was determined to exploit. Not for her the hopelessness of life.

He couldn't really make up his mind about her. A relationship was on the cards if he wanted it. He couldn't be sure. On the surface it seemed a pleasant prospect; more than that, an extremely erotic one. He tried to work out just who had picked up whom. A casual conversation struck up between two people standing watching the boats from the quayside. It had started there. He laughed; the old corny invitation, come back to my place and see my etchings. She needed a man because she was struggling financially. He needed a roost, a refuge. That was the common bond that would hold them together. One of two things could sever it: her discovery of his true identity or his sudden reversion to the base animal instincts which at this moment lay dormant inside him. They would both be living on a time bomb.

The western sky was turning to saffron, a haze that came, more quickly with the dusk. Tyler stood up, stretched his cramped limbs. The damp seemed to have infiltrated right into his bones, a dull ache which he couldn't shake off. He started back towards town walking rapidly as though he had reached a decision that must be implemented at the earliest opportunity.

‘You're early.’ Mandy turned as he entered the room, the paintbrush in her hand poised like a dart.

‘Sorry.’ He closed the door, dropped the holdall on the floor. ‘Would you like me to leave and come back later?’

‘Don't be silly.’ She turned back to her canvas. ‘But you'll have to hang around while I get on with this.’

‘Am I allowed to talk?’

‘Oh-huh, but you mightn't get a sensible answer.’

‘That's all right. I've taken your advice. I've decided to swop the Imperial Hotel for the Studio Hotel if the offer still stands.’

‘I thought you might.’ She didn't look up, intent on extending a strip of jutting rock in the cliff face. ‘In fact, I'd have staked this picture and next week's warmed-up chips on it. I hoped I was right.’

There was silence for a few moments. He didn't want to break her concentration, admiring the steadiness of her hand. It was hard to accept that she was on drugs.

‘There!’ She let out a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction, began wiping her brush on a paint-stained rag. ‘I think that'll do for now. I'll finish it first thing in the morning without any trouble. Now, seeing as you've taken up residence here perhaps you'd like to find your way around and make some coffee. Sorry, coffee- substitute, there's a box of bags over there by the kettle.’

He moved, began filling the kettle.

‘Oh … Ray …’

He stiffened, caught his breath, had to regain his composure before turning round. ‘Ray? Gavin …’

‘Come off it, Ray.’ She was laughing openly, standing there arms akimbo. ‘You might have fooled everybody else but one person you haven't fooled is me!’

Oh, bloody hell! He tensed, half expecting a trap of some kind, policemen emerging from behind the pile of tea chests in the corner. It didn't happen. Just Mandy, unafraid, laughing, defying him to deny her accusation. ‘All right.’ He spoke softly. ‘Ray it is. Ray Tyler. How … how did you find out?’

‘I happened to switch the tranny on at lunchtime. It was mentioned on the one o'clock news. Just a brief description, one that could have fitted half the male population of Britain. But your Mandy is extra perceptive. I knew. Just as I know you're no rampant sex murderer!’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’ He laughed and hoped his nervousness did not show. If it did she gave no sign of having noticed it.

‘Nothing, frankly.’ She moved closer, rested a hand on his arm. ‘I need you as much as you need me.’

‘Blackmail!’ He spat the word out.

‘Now that's not nice.’ She raised an eyebrow in mock severity. ‘Not nice at all. Shall we call it an … an arrangement?’

‘Call it what you like. I'm only surprised that you haven't called the police when you realised a hunted murderer might be calling back tonight.’

‘You're no murderer! If you did it at all it was probably a crime of passion. Maybe that tart tried to blackmail you!’

‘No, she didn't.’ He nearly said ‘I don't remember anything about it’ but Mandy certainly wouldn't believe that. ‘I roughed her up a bit, but I didn't … didn't …’

‘I'll take your word for it.’ She reached behind him and flicked on the kettle switch. ‘Now, suppose we eat tonight. There's a Chinese takeaway up the road. No, don't worry, I'll go and fetch the food. You don't have to step outside this door.’

As she poured the coffee Tyler delved inside his pocket and withdrew the wad of notes, peeling off one. He saw her gaze alight on the money, cursed his foolishness in letting her see the whole lot. It was too late now, though.

‘By the way’ - she perched on the edge of a tea chest sipping her coffee - ‘how was the joint?’

‘I went on one helluva trip. Didn't expect to come back.’

‘It's often like that the first time.’ She grinned. ‘I was wondering if you'd do me … us … a favour later on tonight.’

‘Let's hear it.’

‘I was supposed to be meeting Ricky on the beach down by the pier sometime around midnight.’

‘And who the hell's Ricky?’

‘The guy I was telling you about, the one I get my grass from.’

Jesus, she wasn't wasting any time organising him, spending his money. ‘Why can't you go? I'll give you the money,’

‘Sure you would but I don't happen to like Ricky. Sometimes he wants more than money and I'm a bit particular who I go with.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘You'll be all right. It'll be dark, the beach'll be deserted, and anyway Ricky's in no position to shop anybody.’

‘OK, I'll go.’ He grunted and put his empty mug in the sink. ‘But let's get some food down us first. I'll have a sweet and sour pork. Get what you want for yourself.’

She folded the fiver carefully and tucked it in the hip-pocket of her jeans. Tyler watched her as she let herself out, there was something about her, he couldn't quite determine exactly what, that reminded him of Pat Davidson.

The sea glinted with an orange radiance where the tip of the full moon was just sliding into view above the horizon. Moored yachts and pleasure cruisers bobbed gently inside the harbour and somewhere a curlew warbled mournfully. The holidaymakers had retired for the night, even the funfair was silent. Until tomorrow, when the noisy routine would begin again.

The mud was thick and squelchy beneath the towering supports of the pier. In some places Tyler sank in up to his ankles, cursing silently as he struggled to keep his balance and extricate his feet. He shivered with cold, pulled himself up on to a horizontal iron girder and wondered if it was possible to walk right out to the tide's edge on the lower struts. They were slippery and in places there were no verticals to hold on to. Water dripped everywhere, mostly from the seaweed which had got caught up with the last tide.

This part of the beach was a dank forbidding place, eerie, so far removed from the sunlight hours of golden sand and sparkling blue water. Tyler peered into the shadows but could not see anybody. Ricky was expecting Mandy. Maybe he was hidden close by, afraid to show himself in case this stranger was part of a police trap.

‘Ricky,’ Ray Tyler called softly, hearing the name echo on down beneath the pier. ‘Ricky … Ricky … icky …’ fading out like some gigantic whisper.

Nothing moved.

‘Ricky … Mandy sent me. Mandy … sent me … sent me … me … me …’

Oh, Jesus, the creep wasn't going to show up. Cold and wet, mud-soaked shoes all for nothing.

‘You looking for me?’ The voice was so close that Tyler almost slipped from his precarious perch, grabbed at a cross-section to save himself. He swivelled round, saw a man perched only a couple of yards away, outlined against the ebbing tide beyond the pier's end.

‘Yes’ - Tyler was breathing heavily – ‘if your name's Ricky.’

‘Could be. And who the fuck are you?’

‘A friend of Mandy's.’

‘Or the fuzz?’

‘No. Just Mandy's … boyfriend.’

‘So the dirty little cow's found another guy to shag her!’ Ricky laughed coarsely. ‘Ever had a dose before, mate?’

Ray Tyler felt his anger starting to rise. This was what you had to put up with when you got hooked. Money alone didn't enable you to satisfy your craving. You had to cringe and let the pushers shovel shit all over you. ‘Watch it,’ he breathed.

‘Don't get fresh with me, sonny.’ Ricky could have been no older than twenty, a kid with long fair hair, features hidden in the shadows. ‘You start getting funny and there'll be no grass, price's gone up, by the way. Fifty per cent. Inflation.’

Tyler's fists clenched as he loosed his hold and got his balance. He sized up the distance which separated him from the other; no more than two yards at the most with a drop of some six feet into the mud below. Fifty per cent. Mandy's tenner's worth was going to cost fifteen. Trips were getting expensive, the same as travelling by British Rail!

‘Well, d'you want any or not? Or, to be more precise, have you got enough cash on you? I don't trade smaller quantities. And I don't give credit.’

Tyler steadied himself, the rage inside him building up to its peak, tensing every muscle until his body was a taut bowstring, a missile of death about to be launched. ‘Hand over what you've got, Ricky!’ His voice was a rasp laden with menace.

‘Cut the crap …’

Ray Tyler was airborne, leaping, punching, his knuckles meeting with solid bone. Ricky's head snapped back, he lost his balance, clutched wildly at his attacker pulling him down in an embrace of mutual hatred.

They hit the mud together, Tyler uppermost, a bestial snarl escaping his lips as the other's knee drove up into him, winding him. Ricky hit out wildly, felt his blow glance off something solid. Then Tyler had him by the hair, pulling his head sideways, baring a white expanse of throat, the jugular vein bulging under the strain.

Ray Tyler thought for a second that he was going to black out but the spasm passed, seeming to leave his brain numbed, a sensation that he was standing apart from his own body, a spectator to his own actions. A grunt that was scarcely human, lips drawn back to bare his teeth, jaws going down, biting hard, feeling the suppleness of Ricky's flesh, tearing at it …

Warm thick fluid was spouting into Tyler's face, momentarily blinding him. His adversary was struggling, jerking, making noises that sounded like underwater screams; a frantic kicking and flailing of arms that was becoming weaker all the time.

Tyler chewed on something, spat it out, tried to wipe his eyes clear. The sight which greeted him came as a terrible shock, Ricky lying perfectly still, head twisted at an unnatural angle, a gaping wound in his throat from which blood welled up like a spring out of the ground. Tyler tried to kneel up, discovered that his legs were stuck firmly in the mud and sinking deeper all the time. He floundered, pulled a foot out with a loud sucking noise; somehow freed the other, lying flat now so that the suction power of the ground beneath him was lessened.

Ricky was dead, there was no doubt about that. It took some time for realisation to dawn on Tyler. I killed the bastard. Jesus, I must've bit into his throat so that he bled so much that … And I enjoyed it. Because I'm a werewolf!

He tried to examine his hands for signs of a growth of hair but it was too dark to see properly. The fear came and went again. It was different now that he had come to terms with himself, accepted things for what they were. Ricky deserved to die; he was probably responsible for a dozen or more deaths, kids mostly. Society wouldn't miss him. With luck the mud would suck his body down, the tide when it flowed again hiding all traces of what had taken place.

But Tyler wasn't leaving empty-handed. Even as he started to crawl away he remembered why he had come here. The drugs! Frantically he began searching the dead man's pockets. Two polythene envelopes; there was no chance to examine the contents but they rattled like garden seeds. He stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket, nestling them against the wad of banknotes.

He paused, looked up, listening intently. A soft lapping sound. Water. The incoming tide.

Fear, backing away, still scrambling on all-fours. A werewolf cannot cross running water. Danger! As dangerous as a bullet moulded from silver!

He made it back to the shingle beneath the sea wall and lay prone, his ears tuned in to every nocturnal sound. Voices. Revellers. Tyler didn't move; they couldn't see him down here in the shadows. He was safe, protected by the darkness which hid his crimes. Three singing, chanting youths passed on heading towards the town.

It was half an hour before he finally moved, skulking along the sea wall, dragging himself over, hugging the shadows until at last he saw the lighted window of Mandy's studio, her shadow cast on the curtains as she worked diligently at her easel.

And then he felt the urge returning.

Chapter FIFTEEN

Mandy sat staring at the small battered transistor long after the ten o'clock news had finished. She let it drone on, the sports roundup, some music which wasn't her scene. The sounds didn't register, went unheeded. Only that news item, over and over again, the newsreader's words impinging themselves on her brain with numbing repetitiveness, echoing inside her head.

‘… following police investigations a youth was arrested today and charged with the murder of Mary Jones. However, they still wish to trace runaway bank clerk Ray Tyler who is wanted for questioning in connection with the killing as well as injuries inflicted upon a private detective who is now recovering in hospital. On the Stock Exchange …’

After a time she leaned across and turned the radio off. It was tricky knowing just what to do. Once Tyler heard the news he would probably take off and give himself up. And he had a fat wad of banknotes in his pocket, money which would buy things she needed … like grass.

No, Tyler must be prevented from learning of the arrest of this unknown youth. It shouldn't be too hard. She found a nail file, unscrewed the back of the transistor and removed the two SP2s, dropping them into the waste bin. Then she screwed the radio up again and put it back on the table. Providing her ‘lodger’ didn't go out during the daytime (which he most certainly would not) then he wasn't likely to see a newspaper.

Satisfied, she picked up her paintbrush and went back to her easel. She had been working for barely five minutes when she heard footsteps on the uncarpeted steps; a pause. Heavy breathing. Then the door was flung open and Ray Tyler stood there.

Mandy's hand went to her mouth and she almost screamed. It took her several seconds to be sure that it was Ray beneath the plastering of mud and congealing blood, the features almost unrecognisable, the work of some crazed sculptor attempting to create the ultimate in blasphemy; eyes that glowed out of deep sockets, flared nostrils, lips pulled back to reveal an animal-like snarl. A creature that had crawled up from the bowels of hell itself.

‘Ray!’ She backed away, felt weak. ‘What's … what's happened. That's … that's blood!’

‘Sure it is. Ricky's blood’

‘Ricky!’

‘You said you hated him.’ He moved into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. ‘Well, he won't bother you any more. And I've got all the grass he was carrying on him.’

‘You … you killed him!’

‘Yes. Just like that girl.’

‘No … no.’ She hadn't been going to tell him but now she had to. She must convince him that he was no longer a hunted man before he harmed her. ‘It wasn't you, Ray. They've got some youth for it, charged him.’

‘What!’

‘It was on the news. They only want to question you now.’

‘Jesus God!’ But he'd killed again tonight.

‘What happened with Ricky?’ She backed away, didn't like the glint in his eyes.

‘He deserved what he got. Wanted to take me for every pound he could. They'll never find him, though. Christ, they'd never find anybody in that mud under the pier.’ He rummaged in his pockets, held up the envelopes. ‘See, I took him for everything he'd got!’ A loud insane laugh.

Her eyes widened. Even in her terror she was automatically working out the value of the drugs. ‘That's … great, Ray. But you've killed the goose that lays the golden egg. Now we won't be …’

‘To hell with that!’ He snarled and stuffed the packets back into his pocket. ‘Now you know what I am, Mandy!’

‘What … whatever do you mean?’ She looked wildly around, contemplated jumping through the window but realised she'd never even make it that far.

‘Look at me. For God's sake look at me and tell me what you see!’

‘I … I …’ She saw the mud, the blood, the demoniacal madness in his eyes. ‘You're in a terrible mess. Upset by your ordeal. Nothing that we can't clean up and put right.’

‘Look at me, you bitch, and tell me!’

She shook her head in bewilderment. He was holding out his hands, flexing his fingers.

‘Can't you see that I'm not human? I'm afflicted with the most terrible curse ever bestowed on mankind. And now it seems I don't even have the respite of those weeks between full moons. I'm a werewolf!’

You're crazier than I thought, she decided. You're what they said you were earlier on the radio. A psychopath! Andy you did kill that girl no matter what they say. Just as you killed Ricky and you're going to kill me!

‘OK …’ She felt the wall at her back, knew she could go no further. ‘You're a werewolf. I can see it now.’

‘You're lying. You're just saying it. You can't see because you're blind to it like everybody else. Like my wife was.’

‘I'm … sure we can sort something out.’ There was a lump in her throat which made talking difficult. ‘You don't have to hurt me, Ray. I'm … your friend … I can help you.’

‘You don't understand.’ His fingers closed over her wrists, pulled her close so that his breath fanned her face; something hard pushing at her thighs. ‘I have to obey my instincts. I've killed, enjoyed every minute of it. Now I want you!’

‘You can have me,’ she screamed. ‘I'll do anything you want. You don't have to …’ A hand closed over her mouth cutting off her screams of terror, the other beginning to rip at her clothing, shredding the material and baring the flesh, a knee pinning her back against the wall so that she could barely breathe.

Mandy's muffled screams died away. The hand slipped from over her mouth, grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so that she was forced to look into the lust-filled eyes of her attacker. It was then that she knew she was going to die and prayed that it would be quick.

Mercifully she felt her senses slipping from her like an anaesthetic injection starting to work, her muscles relaxing, only remaining upright because Ray Tyler was holding her. She was vaguely aware of what he was trying to do but no longer felt any pain. She didn't even care now.

It was sometime around dawn when Tyler awoke. He didn't know if he had really slept, only that everything around him in the room had ceased to happen. He glanced across at the couch in revulsion, saw Mandy's naked blood-stained body, her head hanging limply over the side, dark hair falling to the floor like a curtain of undergrowth attempting to hide some ghastly horror. But nothing could hide that! He didn't even have to look, he knew. He'd delighted in every atrocity as he perpetrated it.

The nocturnal hours came back to him in flashes like a child's feverish nightmare on waking. The guy by the pier. Mandy. Oh, God!

He hadn't wanted to kill her. He started to sob, feeling the tears running down the caked mud and blood on his face.

He tried to think clearly but it was impossible. He knew he had to get away from here or … The only other alternative, he'd tried it that morning in the bathroom and failed. He'd fail again here. Because he was a coward. A beast by night, a craven coward by day. Tortured beyond belief.

He raised himself up, tried not to look at the dead girl, but his gaze was drawn irresistibly back to her. You did that, Ray Tyler. You killed her. That was all you ever wanted to do to her. All in the mind, even the animal mating instinct. You didn't do anything except kill her because you didn't want to do anything else. And now you hate yourself for it. And it'll happen again. Because you're a werewolf. Oh, Merciful God!

He had to get away from here. Fast. Run and keep running. But where to? Anywhere where there aren't people. Because people will kill you and you will kill them. Survival of the strongest.

His fingers touched something in his pocket, something small and round. He drew it out. The remains of the joint that had sent him on that trip the other night. That had brought him Lillian. Oh, God, how he needed her now! Just to see her, to talk to her. She'd understand. She had to. She would! He wouldn't harm her this time, he'd fight against every base instinct. Plead with her for forgiveness. For protection.

Somehow he mustered the strength to get to his feet. He searched, found a box of matches. His fingers trembled so that he spilled half the contents on to the floor.

His lips clamped on the cigarette. Hesitation, fear, as the match rasped and flared, the brightness of the flame searing his eyeballs. He drew the smoke down into his lungs, lurched forward in a coughing fit, clutched at the table; inhaled again.

Even as Ray Tyler let himself out into the deserted side street he was beginning to feel heady, a faint sense of euphoria starting to overcome the black depression which held him in its grip. His strength, the will to go on, was returning.

Away on the western horizon he saw the line of hills emerging from the grey light of a dawn sky, a rugged wilderness which was calling to him. Beckoning. Promising.

New life seemed to surge through his limbs, a glimmer of hope where before there had been nothing but despair.

He broke into a run, a marauding fox eager to vacate the domain of Man and return to its lair before full daylight exposed it to the perils of civilisation.

The door of Mandy's room swung gently open in the early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight bathed the step, paused as though reluctant to enter an abode of death, then shafted inside and flooded the oil painting which reposed on the easel in the corner. Another sunrise, vivid, the aura of beauty spoiled only by the richness of the crimson tinting the hills on the canvas, a mountain stream that now ran blood red. An epitaph to Mandy who had died before her time, her last unconscious attempt to finish her final work, the stream now spreading out into a pool at the foot of the hills; congealing, drying.

The breeze caught the door again and slammed it closed, shutting out the early morning sunlight.

Chapter SIXTEEN

Tyler made for that same knoll on which he had spent the previous day. Startled sheep bounded away at his approach, turning back to stare after him in amazement. Human beings were rarely seen so early in the day, not even the farmers who brought them hay in winter.

He reached his destination and sank down in the grass, oblivious of the heavy dew which saturated his trousers. He looked back, saw the vast expanse of rolling moorland, the gentle green of the spring grass, patches of dead bracken which still awaited new growth. Silence except for the bleating of sheep and the croaking of a raven as it scoured the landscape in search of a weakling lamb.

Ray Tyler shook his head, tried to clear the muzziness. The distant town and the bay beyond were an indistinguishable blur. His eyesight wasn't as keen as he thought. He felt slightly dizzy, too. But physically he was fitter than he had ever been.

But he was free. Free! It was an exhilarating feeling, the knowledge that none controlled him even though they hunted him. The fox with hounds in close pursuit experienced the same jubilance, the thrill of the chase, a challenge that had to be met. People did not understand, Tyler reflected. Their sympathies were misdirected. The quarry enjoyed the hunt as much as the huntsmen. It was obvious if you stopped to think about it.

And soon the hunt would begin. It was only a matter of time before they picked up his trail, followed him up here into the hills over terrain where one false step meant sudden death to both pursued and pursuers. But this was how it should be. There was no way of knowing how it would end. He didn't want to think about that.

It was early afternoon when he first heard the barking of the dogs and saw small dots which had to be humans moving in a long line across the lower side of the moor. He judged they were about a mile and a half away and heading in his direction, not hurrying. They were confident, too confident.

Tyler lay watching them for ten minutes or so before he made a move, easing himself backwards and clambering down the rocky incline behind him. He would have to go north. He had no idea what lay beyond the furthermost line of stunted pines but it didn't really matter. He would give them a chase to remember.

He took his time, keeping low, making use of every available patch of cover, heedless of the gorse spikes which scratched his hands and face. That faraway feeling again, shaking his head trying to clear it, half expecting to wake up and find himself back at Mandy's; seeing her working steadily at her easel. No, this time that wouldn't happen. There wasn't going to be an easy way out. This was no hallucination. It was for real. He was a hunted killer. A werewolf!

Down into a hollow, his panoramic view temporarily cut off. Pausing, breathing heavily but not because he was out of condition; he was thrilling to the chase, his pulses racing. He grinned. It wasn't going to be easy, either for them or him. But he wasn't going to rush it. Take your time like they're doing. They wouldn't be able to scour the whole moor before nightfall. Darkness would be his greatest ally. Then the odds would be in his favour.

It was easier to climb the steep slope up on to level ground again on hands and knees. Halfway up Tyler paused, licked his lips. He felt … safer, more confident this way, just as he had on those occasions when … it didn't add up. Man had learned to walk upright, generations of apes struggling to get their balance. Why? For some reason they supposed it gave them an advantage over other forms of life around them. They were wrong.

He reached the top, pulled himself up into a clump of gorse and lay looking north. Then his jubilance waned. Far away, only just visible, was another line of minute moving shapes. Coming towards him. Jesus, they'd thrown a cordon round the whole moor, now closing in towards the centre.

Ray Tyler tautened, felt suddenly afraid. This way they would be all converging in a couple of hours at the most, long before nightfall. The beginning of panic, wanting to run blindly.

The wind blowing off the sea carried voices; men shouting to one another, dogs baying excitedly. The dogs had his scent from the south, knew they were on his trail, tugging at their leashes.

Tyler looked behind him. The hunters were nearer now. He could make out details. Dark and light uniforms; police and soldiers. They were probably armed. The dogs were all fully grown Alsatians, wide slavering jaws like wolves. His scalp prickled. Trapped, nowhere left to run.

And then he noticed the stream for the first time. It followed a deep narrow gorge, twelve-foot limestone cliffs on either side which it had eroded away over the centuries to widen and deepen its course, brackish water that was almost still in places, in others a foaming torrent over a boulder-strewn bed.

It was the only way. He began crawling, pulling himself along on his elbows, pushing with the toes of his boots until at last he reached the watercourse, peering down. Scrub bushes clung precariously to the sides, their roots gnarled and twisted, moss and lichen slippery and treacherous. A water shrew basking in the spring sunlight on a rocky shelf plopped into the water and disappeared without trace. Tyler envied the small creature its ability to escape danger so easily.

The dogs were louder now. Nearer. Maybe they had already been loosed from their leashes. He couldn't see them without standing up and to do that would be to give away his position. Sweating, trembling, he leaned over the side, grabbed at a silver birch sapling and tested its firmness. It held.

He began to lower himself down, a mountaineer without safety ropes. The water's deep down there. You can't swim, never did succeed in learning! Oh, God! Don't look down.

Standing on a narrow shelf. It stretched away round the next bend; he wondered how far it went, a kind of platform only inches above the surface of the water. He could walk along it if he was careful, holding on to the rock face and the sparse bushes. Test each step, avoid the moss if you can. Don't hurry. But you must or the dogs will find you!

Trembling, staring at the rock and pretending the water wasn't there. Seeing a face, a young suave man with eyes that were slightly too close together. Jepson, the swimming instructor, a real bastard, the ogre of those far off schooldays. You never saw him except in a tracksuit; never witnessed his own aquatic ability. Maybe the fucker couldn't even swim! One big bluff that had got him a cushy number for life.

What's the matter with you, Tyler? What are you standing dithering on the edge for? Too bloody cold for you is it? No, it's because you're shit-scared of the water. Get in boy, before I push you in. And I won't be in a hurry to fetch you out, either!

No! I'm not going in the water. There isn't any water here. Just a drystone gulch where a small river once flowed. It's probably been dried up for centuries. Jepson's gone now. Retired, maybe dead. I hope he's fucking well dead, fallen in the river and fucking well drowned like everybody used to hope he would.

I'm here, Tyler and you're going in the water if it's the last thing I do. You've got two choices, swim or drown!

No, you're not. It's all in the mind. The drugs. I'm quite safe. All I have to do is follow this ledge until I get off the moor and back into the hills. They'll never find me then. I'll be free as I always wanted to be.

He came to the sharp bend and eased himself slowly round it. And then the ledge petered out! Nothing but sheer sides going down to the black swirling water, not even a bush growing here. No way up; only down!

Ray Tyler's mouth was dry, a hard furred tongue scraping its way round cracked lips. The water can't be all that deep. The stream's no more than six feet wide. Up to the waist at the most, a shale bottom, easy to wade. And the dogs won't be able to follow a scent upstream.

Lying down, easing himself off the ledge into the current, the coldness of the water numbing him instantly.

Too bloody cold for you is it, Tyler? Get in boy before …

Fuck off, Jepson. I know you can't even swim. Gently does it …

A sudden terrible realisation, up to his chest, his feet threshing the stream but not finding its bed, gripping that sliver of jutting stone. Too deep. Go back. Pull yourself up.

And then Tyler's fingers began to slip, the muscles seeming to become paralysed, unable to hold on any longer. One despairing grab, not even feeling the grazing of palms and wrists; falling, the water coming up and closing over him.

He went under, kicking and punching wildly, the bright sunlight gone, suddenly turned to the black of night without even a guiding star. Floating, turning, groping but finding only water everywhere. Trying to breathe, sucking in water, pulses hammering under the strain. Hitting something solid, being scraped along, then drifting on in a world of black nothingness.

Faces all around. Jepson mocking, I won't be in a hurry to fetch you out, boy. Just like that time the instructor had pushed him off from the deep end on a rubber ring in which the valve had been deliberately loosened. You're on your own now, boy. You'll either swim or sink.

Lillian, expressionless, just watching. Her eyes were sunken and red-rimmed as though she'd been crying. She didn't want him back, made no attempt to stretch out a helping hand.

Mandy's hate-filled features loomed up, screaming accusations. You didn't have to kill me. I'd have helped you then. But not now!

A bunch in the background, fading before Tyler had fully recognised them. The Waltons, cursing, pointing. Henshaw and Brownleigh sneering. Anderson, too.

Finally Pat Davidson, there on her own after all the others had gone. A beckoning finger, smiling coyly. I was only teasing you, Ray, but it went too far. Come back and we'll try again. It was all my fault in the beginning. I got you into this.

But there was no way back. They'd all gone. Deserted him. He didn't need them, though. Not any more. The pain and the panic had disappeared. He'd beaten them all in the end, even the men and dogs on the moor, slipped them just as they were closing in for the kill.

The cool water seemed to revive him. Ray Tyler floated, trod water in the deeper parts of the stream and stared up at the metal blue sky above. His aching muscles seemed to have revived as though new life had been injected into them. Only the mental anguish remained.

He tried to work out where he was, why he had not drowned when he had blacked out. Running water was supposed to kill werewolves and yet he still lived. Or did he? Perhaps he was dead and this was some kind of hell where he was destined to float downstream, on and on for eternity. No, it was too pleasant, it couldn't be.

He listened. Far away some dogs were baying but after a time he could not hear them any more. He was alive, all right, somehow having survived, but still a fugitive. And the thought made him very angry. There wasn't any hurry, though. Obviously the dogs had lost his scent where he had fallen into the water and he had drifted downstream past the cordons of police, soldiers, and civilian searchers. They might even presume him dead! But no longer was he a frightened fugitive. He'd run too far and for too long. Now it was his turn, time for the hunted to become the hunter! Mandy was only the first of many!

Time passed. He drifted slowly enjoying the cool invigorating water, his strength returning faster than he had anticipated. The sun was low in the western sky now; another hour or so and it would be dark. And later the full moon would rise …

Tyler paddled his way into the side, pulled himself up a shallow bank and lay in a clump of coarse grasses, watching the sky turning saffron. A new eagerness was beginning, a new fury that was cold and calculated and allowed him to think logically.

It was time to begin. He stood up, stretched his cramped limbs and waited for the circulation to return. Then he set off, climbed to the top of a small hillock, keeping low all the way. Slowly he straightened up, grunted with satisfaction as he made out the lights of the town a couple of miles away to his right. Luck had indeed been on his side; somewhere the course of the moorland stream had turned back on itself, taken him past his pursuers and also brought him back close to his starting point.

He set off at a steady walk, laughing softly to himself in the darkness. They'd given up, gone home; if he wasn't already dead then they had driven him out of the area. But they were in for a shock. Ray Tyler was on his way back and he intended to make them pay in full for the way they had hounded him; the streets would run red with blood, the pavements stained in a lasting memoriam. One man against a thousand and he'd go down fighting all the way!

Tyler stared in through the square of lighted window, eyes narrowed, an expression of amazement on his features. The room was an untidy kitchen, the table littered with unwashed crockery and an ashtray that was spilling its contents on to the grubby tablecloth. A man sat in an upright chair in the centre, a stained and filthy towel draped around his neck, a woman standing behind him using a pair of strong kitchen scissors to lop off the long matted unwashed locks of greying hair. She worked with speed as though she feared that at any moment he might decide to get up and leave the task half finished. Hair dropped to the floor and she trod it into the floorboards as she moved round to the front.

They were both in their fifties, lined faces that denoted a perpetual struggle with life, their mouths moving in what seemed to be a habitual argument of mutual protests. The man winced as she tugged, almost tore some stubborn strands out of his head. But she was undeterred, stooping slightly now as she concentrated on the bushy moustache.

Ray Tyler moved away, stretched out a hand and located the door handle, turned it gently. He couldn't understand why anybody would want to cut hair off their body, stroked his own growth of stubble as though to reassure himself. Then the door was open and he was stepping inside.

The man saw him first, a look of disbelief, crazed horror before he jerked away, throwing up his arms; he let out a piercing scream, the chair tottered precariously and the narrow blade of the scissors gouged up into a nostril. A cry of pain and fear, blood spurting from the torn flesh.

‘You bloody idiot, Tom!’ The woman was still unaware of Tyler's presence. ‘For Christ's sake!’

But he wasn't listening, scrambling backwards like a crab, mouthing words that were no more than hoarse croaks, pointing at the doorway, blood gushing in a scarlet torrent from his nose.

She turned, saw the intruder for the first time and then she, too, was screaming, instinctively brandishing the scissors in the manner of a dagger. ‘Keep away. Don't you dare come any nearer or I'll shove these in yer bloody throat! I know who you are, they said you was up on the moors somewhere, Call the police, Tom!’

But Tom was in no condition to summon the law. He stared, blood still pouring down his face, retreating into a corner. Whimpering.

Ray Tyler had no time to waste. He sprang at the woman first, caught her wrist as she tried to drive her weapon down at him, reversed the crimson blade so easily, laughed loudly as he forced it back up to her throat.

‘No! You can't do that. We don't mean you any 'arm!’

The point of the blade nicked her throat, brought another scream. He held it there a second, savouring what he was about to do, a moment to relish. Then he exerted all his strength, pushed upwards, hacked sideways. A gaping tear, then a thick jet of scarlet fluid hit him full in the face. One second of headiness like a connoisseur of vintage wine drinking greedily from a tapped barrel, eager to satisfy his craving before savouring the contents more leisurely.

A blind red rage that was instantly triggered off, an awareness that the man was coming at him wielding a chair. He pulled the woman close, buried his teeth in that spouting wound, at the same time using her as a battering ram, pushing her into the path of his assailant. The man called Tom was jerked off balance by the impact, slipped in a pool of blood and fell heavily. Now there could be only one outcome!

Ray Tyler tore his way through the throat and up into the neck, ripped away a ribbon of flesh, then with a crashing blow like despatching a wounded rabbit he sent her hurtling across the room. She hit a sideboard, some plates fell to the floor and smashed, straightened up clutching at her pumping throat, pushing her fingers deep into it as though desperately trying to stem the blood. Then her legs crumpled beneath her and she slid slowly down, her eyes starting to glaze over.

Tyler turned on the man. The other was on his knees, moaning, pleading, knowing it was all in vain and that he was going to die.

Ray stood over him, grabbed him by a tuft of badly cut hair and jerked his head up, saw blood bubbles forming and bursting on the lacerated nostrils. Laughing, tearing away his victim's clothing with the ease of a mother undressing an unwilling child at bedtime. Bared grimy flesh that spilled over the waistband of the trousers in a roll, layers of fat that wobbled and trembled. Tyler reached out a foot, scraped the fallen scissors towards him and picked them up with his free hand. Tom saw and understood, pleaded incoherently but knew in his heart that it was futile. This beast from the moors had returned for revenge; he would spare none!

Tyler opened the scissors out, saw that they were blunt. But it was of no consequence; they would rip and tear and hack because he had the strength to use them. Pushing with the point, gouging, circling the flesh around the spongy navel as though he was removing the core from an apple, then ripping frantically because the blade was not sharp enough to cut the rubbery entrails. A glance at the man's face showed him that he still lived; indescribable agony, bulging eyes screaming for death.

Slitting down into the groin, then right the way back up into the chest, the scissors embarked upon a direct route for the throat when Tyler became aware of others in the room. Straightening up, whirling round, seeing a shocked sea of faces, people pressing back in their haste to get out of the door. Three or four men, gasps of revulsion, getting in each other's way, one headlong flight that stampeded them out into the street. Somebody was shouting, doors opening.

‘He's here. The maniac from the moors. He's come back!’

Tyler dropped the scissors, ran to the door. A crowd was gathering, hanging back. Others would join them, this was no time to linger here.

Even so the desire for revenge was uppermost in his blood-crazed brain almost as strong as that of self-survival. He saw the matchbox on the table by the ashtray, fumbled it open with bloody fingers, rasped a head on the emery paper. A pile of fish-and-chip papers on which the greasy fat had dried burst into instant flame, licking at an overturned cereal packet. He leaped away, not so much as a glance back at his two victims, the man still writhing and vomiting blood. Then he was outside, running, scattering the watchers, their cries of fear stirring strains of music in his ears. Even as he turned into the adjoining street he heard the wailing of sirens.

He was breathing heavily, his chest pounding, having to pause in an unlit shop doorway, a second hand shop with dirty windows as though the proprietors were ashamed of their wares being inspected by passers-by. He closed his eyes, tried to think, but reasoning was beyond him. All that mattered was that these people had to pay for what they had done to him. The night was still young, the moon barely at its zenith seeming to fire him with new strength from its silvery light, the shadows sent to give him cover.

The promenade was deserted. He crouched down whilst two speeding cars with flashing blue lights passed, a beast of the chase trying to work out how to hit back at the hunters. Then he spied the pier, a stilted structure that jutted out into the glinting shining sea and a familiar feeling crept over him. He remembered hazily a killing there. And there might yet be another before this night was done.

He scrambled over a padlocked iron gate, jumped heavily down the other side and rolled on wet boards. Dazed, hearing a sudden shout.

‘There he is. He's on the pier!’

Running feet, a sudden trapped feeling. He should not have come here; there was no way back, stranded on an artificial peninsular, death in front, death behind. He gave a roar, a sound that lifted into the night sky and hung there, a wild beast at bay with the hounds closing in on it but ready to fight to the last.

Rows of deserted benches, slot machines like silent leering robots. Running, glancing back. But nobody was coming after him. They were afraid of him!

Stark ugly shelters in which people sat on windy wet days, a huge telescope that looked like a Gatling machine gun from a past era. Down on all-fours, peering between the railings and looking into the distorted reflection of a watery moon. You are not finished with them yet!

Something rattled in the pocket of his torn jacket. He pulled out a small oblong box. Matches, he'd dropped the box into his pocket when he'd set fire to that house. A sense of power. Fire, a worthy servant but an evil master. He snarled, looked around again for somewhere to hide but there was nowhere. Just piles of stacked deckchairs, striped canvases fluttering in the slight sea breeze.

And then he knew, knew exactly what he was going to do. He had the matches and fire was going to be his faithful ally for the second time within an hour!

There was plenty of rubbish lying about, cast-off newspapers and cigarette packets, sweet wrappers, even an old cardboard carton. He began gathering them up, piling them up against the deckchairs, laughing softly to himself and smelling the blood which was still damp on his clothing. Let them come, oh God, let them all come!

And then they came, but not the stampeding mob which he had anticipated. Flitting shapes that darted from one patch of cover to the next, dark-clothed men in flat headgear who carried rifles and pistols, dogs that whined impatiently and pulled at their leashes. Whilst away on the promenade the crowd was swelling, a moving mass like a gathering of soldier ants, every one of them with vengeance in their hearts because he had dared to return.

Stentorian tones that came at him out of the darkness, meaningless words because he no longer understood, did not want to because nothing would change his plans now. He waited, match resting on emery paper, and then the first Alsatian came bounding towards him.

One tiny flame caught a crumpled newspaper, was growing even as the dog leaped. Tyler braced himself, ducked beneath the wide jaws and seized a front leg in either hand. He fell back under the impact but even as he did so he used all his strength to pull the limbs in opposite directions. One canine yelp of pain that was cut short as soon as it began, and then the dog was lying limp behind him, twitched once or twice and lay still, its heart ruptured.

The pile of deckchairs was blazing, giving off thick clouds of swirling smoke. Ray Tyler coughed, pawed at his streaming eyes, sucking in the vile-smelling fumes. Shouting, but they did not try to rush him. He retreated a few yards, found himself up against the railings on the end of the pier. He looked down but the waters were black and there was no moon to be seen shimmering on the surface; it had gone, deserted him in his hour of need.

The heat, it was a stifling inferno, the smoke thickening even more so that he could barely breathe, a wall of orange fire leaping and crackling along the dry boards … coming towards him!

Realisation numbed his mind and body. Dancing tongues of fire that took on shapes. Faces. Lillian, laughing, pointing. Mandy. The Waltons. Even old Henshaw was there but he was dead already so there was only one place this could be. Tyler screamed, turned back to the water but it was gone, just flames and smoke in a burning living hell.

A blackness that alternated with a red haze, lying slumped on the wooden boards and hearing the fire crackling beneath them, eating away the supports. Tilting like a sinking ship and holding on to the railings, yelling for them to come and save him. But they wouldn't because this was what they wanted, to see him roasting and screaming.

He could not see any more, a kind of red blindness that blotted out everything, the heat scorching his skin. Someone calling his name, a woman's voice; he could not make up his mind whether it was Lillian or Mandy. Burning, falling, rushing through air that scorched and brought agonised cries from his blistered lips. Then suddenly cooling water that soothed his body, pulling him down into its depths, holding him, suffocating him until his chest was bursting.

So wonderfully soothing to his scorched skin that it didn't seem to matter whether he could breathe or not, just like being back in that moorland stream.

And Ray Tyler experienced profound relief at the thought that he was going to die.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the twenty-first book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

19. Warhead.

20. Manitou Doll.

21. Wolfcurse.

The next book will be :

22. Crabs On The Rampage.

"One man only saw them and him they killed, hunted him down through the dense reed beds, trapped him, drove him mad with terror before they pulled him to pieces and ate every bloodied shred of his body. And then it was quiet again - for a little while, until they came ashore again. On that holiday beach there were hundreds of men, women and children. Food!"

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.